


Zenon Eyes IV: Eyes of Truth

by matrixrefugee



Series: Zenon Eyes [4]
Category: A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001)
Genre: Drama, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 110,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matrixrefugee/pseuds/matrixrefugee





	1. Death

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's note:

This is a "thirty-five to forty years later" sequel to the "Zenon Eyes" triptych. Joe has learned much since Serin, his designer imprinted him, and it has changed him incredibly. I must admit a lot of the themes are borrowed from Isaac Asimov's novella "Bicentennial Man", but this is not a cinematic crossover from the film version that starred Robin Williams. This will be a work in progress, so keep an eye on this for the next chapters. Dedicated to Laurie E. Smith, thanks a million for the link to her excellent "A.I." fansite (if you have not seen this absolutely fabulous site, navigate, do not surf to it at .-after you've read this, of course!); to everyone who's read and reviewed my other "A.I." fictions; to "fom4life", who, even though he sounds nothing like Jude Law, sent me into orbit by trying to impersonate Joe's voice over the phone; and to Mecha-huggers everywhere.

Disclaimer:

I do not own "A.I.", its characters, concepts, themes or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, and of Steven Spielberg, DreamWorks SKG, Warner Brothers, et al; nor do I own the themes, concepts, etc. of "Bicentennial Man", which belongs to the late, great Isaac Asimov.

Chapter I: Death

He should have grown accustomed to death by now: he had stared this total cessation of function in the face twice, but when it came to the home he had known for the past thirty-five years, it came like a bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky.

Serin had "retired" from Companionates about ten years before, when a viral infection had weakened her heart. She rarely left the house, except for short periods of time. But Joe kept up his painting, which brought her a comfortable living; Trask Zipes's son Lutwyn, who had inherited his father's job on the elder Zipes's passing, had found him a place as a portrait painter, which brought in a steady income, as well as providing a springboard for selling his other works. Aside from occasional maintenance, his physical needs amounted to very little.

She had "aged" much since her illness. Her beauty had given way to entropy, but he could still see traces of it, especially in her eyes. He tended her carefully, with a devotion not often seen among the young who care for the old. After all, he had been built to console her after the death of her husband.

She'd toyed with the thought of having his appearance altered to narrow the age gap, at least add a few gray hairs to his temples, but she decided she didn't want him any other way. Besides, it was amusing to think of how they looked together: an older woman in her seventies and her youthful consort who looked as if he were barely out of his twenties.

She told him she might not have long to live. She had expected him to brush it aside, but he did not. He seemed resigned to the fact; perhaps his experience, passing through the valley of fire called a Flesh Fair was enough to teach him about death.

She often felt very tired and their embraces came less often, which made them all the more precious. The most she could muster at night was gentle cuddling, but he knew how to accommodate.

At times she thought of her late husband. Would she meet the first Joe Masters again in the afterlife? Would he know of what she had done? Would knowing she had built a replica of him anger him? She hoped he could understand why she had done so.

Then, one morning, out of the blue, after he had brought her breakfast to her, Joe asked her a question she never expected from him.

"Do you have any regrets that you have no child?"

She looked at him as he sat on the foot of the bed cross-legged, clad in the plain gray shirt and black trousers he wore when he had work to do. "There was a time when I did," she admitted. "My late husband and I couldn't get a license; we both carried a faulty gene that could turn deadly to our child. I didn't want a donor embryo; if I was going to have a child, I wanted it to be his."

"Were there not all these impediments, would you have wanted a child?"

"Yes, it didn't matter if it was a boy or a girl, as long as the little one was healthy and happy. I used to dream about having a son as sweet and sensitive as his dad, or a daughter as smart and strong as me; either way, I'd see the little one with his eyes and my complexion. I just hope they didn't end up with my teeth."

"Why not?"

"They grew in crooked and I had to have braces for years. But let me ask you this: would you like to be a father?"

He put his head on one side in thought for a long moment. "I think it would be easy for me to adjust to such a role." She wondered if he had recalled the little one who had unwittingly helped him develop, who had saved his brain twice and so bought her the time she needed to bring him back.

That afternoon, he started another painting, which gradually took on the image of himself holding David protectingly. He even moved her to the divan in his studio so she could watch. She read and rested through much of the afternoon.

She'd known some couples who had had "David" models, and the temptation to acquire one had offered itself to her; she broached the question to Joe.

"Can I ask you something?" she ventured, when he had paused to clean his brushes.

He looked at her over his shoulder. "Of course you may."

"I was just thinking, maybe I should adopt one of Cybertronics' child-Mechas."

"Perhaps it is too late for you to do so. At this time, he would seem more like your grandchild."

"I hadn't thought of that." He was right, darn it. A David would be more like his child than hers; some people had already accused her of having a Jocasta complex: Joe, in a manner of speaking, was her creative offspring, even if she had modeled him after her late husband.

"But if you were thinking that the presence of such a Mecha would console me, I am afraid it would not be the same: he would not be the David whom I have known."

"Of course, he'd have different conditioning. But I wonder what would happen if you imprinted one?"

He wagged his head slowly, in an Orga gesture of indecision he had adopted after so long. "Perhaps it could work, but perhaps, on the other hand, it might not work. The only way to discover the answer to this question is to attempt this gesture. But what if it does not work? What then? What of the Mecha?"

"You've learned from the mistakes of Orgas."

He smiled. "Perhaps I have learned better than they have, because I possess the objectivity of another species."

The golden autumn day passed into evening. She found the energy to get up and cook her supper, but he gladly helped her. He told her about a new commission Lutwyn had found for him, painting a portrait of a client's dog.

After supper, he helped her out onto the deck, where she loved to watch the sun set, she sitting on a chaise lounge, he sitting on the decking beside her, where she could reach out and stroke his hair or take his head into her lap.

She noted that it grew colder sooner that night than it had all season: a frost would set in by dawn she guessed. He brought her inside before it grew dark and the evening damp started to set in. He helped her take a bath and got her ready for bed.

She complained of feeling "cold", so he obliged by raising his skin temperature slightly as he held her all through the night.

Just at daybreak, he felt her twitch awake. She gasped and clutched at her chest. He could feel her heart hammering, too fast, much too fast.

"Serin, dearest, what is it?"

"Oh god! My heart!"

He leapt from the bed and ran for the phone as she had instructed him to in case this happened.

Like every morning, Lutwyn went up to Serin's apartment to check on her and Joe, a habit he had picked up from his father. His wife Narsie used to kid him about "the other woman" and he liked to joke about how he had inherited the old girl along with the job. But habit broke that morning when he saw the ambulance and the police cruisers outside Serin's unit. He ran across the frosty lawn, breaking the crust of ice.

The police tried to keep him back, but he explained that he helped look after Serin Masters.

"Well, you should 'a done better than leaving her alone with that thing," one older officer growled.

The paramedics emerged carrying the half-grav stretcher with Serin strapped to it, followed by the building superintendent who had overridden the locks. Joe followed them out, trying to get closer to Serin, only to have one of the police push him back. Lutwyn took Joe by the shoulder and drew him aside.

"What happened?" he asked.

Joe's eye followed Serin as he spoke. "I knew she was not well, and that her life had grown short, but this I could not anticipate."

"Come, tell me what happened."

"Everything went as it usually does yesterday except that she felt more exhaustion. She did not even exert herself needlessly, and yet she complained of her heart."

"I'll drive you to the hospital; I'll see to it you can be near her."

A thin smile flickered across the Mecha's face. "Lucky for her and I that we know you."

At the hospital, Lutwyn had to fill out the paperwork; Joe had all the information, but his nature didn't allow him the authorization to fill out the forms, even onto a datascriber.

Once they had squared that away, there came the worst part of the process, waiting in the hallway for the news, good or bad. Lutwyn called into the office to tell Sheila, his secretary, that he might not be in till noon at least, that Serin had taken ill.

Joe, sitting beside him, was a model of tense patience. He hadn't shifted position since he sat down, yet every time a nurse came from the inner recesses of the ward, he looked up, eyes alive with expectation. And every time they passed by him, he dropped his head with resignation

Finally, at length, a young man in surgical garb approached them, his face grave.

"Mr. Zipes? I'm afraid we have some bad news. Mrs. Masters isn't going to make it. She's flatlined twice already and she's too weak to sustain nanosurgery."

"May we see her?" Lutwyn put in.

"Yes. She'd want you now."

Strange logic patterns flowed through his head so that Joe logicked at first there might be a malfunction somewhere. David had known a terrible loss, albeit an utterly unanticipated one; had he "felt" such odd sensations, like a folding or a slowing of the impulses?

He shook his head as if to clear it, an Orga habit he'd picked up.

Lutwyn had gone into the cubicle first, but now he came out, his face paled.

"She's dying, Joe."

"We both knew, she and I, that it would come soon."

"She can't talk, but I know she'd want to see you before she goes."

It was not a direct order, but he knew it would be what she wanted, what she needed to make her last moments happy, and he had been built to bring happiness back into her life. Lutwyn stepped aside and let him enter.

Serin lay on the bed within, a white form under the blanket, an oxygen mask over her lower face.

"Serin? Dearest, I am here," he said, in a low voice. He sat down on a low chair that stood at the head of the bed, to get down to her level and took her hand in his. It had already started to grow cold.

She turned her face to him. Her fading dark eyes smiled. She said nothing, but words were no longer necessary. Her strength must be preserved so she could enjoy this moment without diminution. He wanted to hold her one last time, but his better judgment overrode it. She was like a snowflake: anything more would dissolve her, but he could look upon her whiteness until she went of her own.

She pulled her face from the oxygen mask and parted her lips. He rose slightly and leaned his face over hers. He kissed her carefully but tenderly, then pulled his face away and replaced the oxygen mask.

She lay still after he had withdrawn. The light faded from her eyes her head rolled back. The lines on a monitor screen built into the bed frame stopped spiking. His auditory sensors picked up an announcement over the PA system, but the sound mattered nothing to him. She was gone. Her image remained in his memory as a bright spot that appeared at a time when the darkness had threatened to engulf him. But somehow, as perfect as these images were, they would never take the place feeling her hands on his face, of talking with her, laughing with her, or just enjoying peaceful silence with her, of holding her in his arms and feeling her heart beating against his chest through the night, while she slept and he kept watch.

The doctors came in, but Lutwyn got in before them. He helped Joe out of the room.

He was about to ask Joe if he was all right, but he realized the Mecha was probably trying to process the avalanche of data and experiences that had just swept over him.

But he looked at Joe, watching his face go from resignation to something else. His lower jaw sagged and his brows pinched together as his eyes widened slightly. They hadn't installed tear reservoirs when they built him and Serin had never had this rectified, but he looked as if he wanted to weep.

Lutwyn helped him to a seat. The Mecha sat down slowly. Then leaned forward, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. After a long moment, he turned his face to Lutwyn's.

"Did you feel such sensations when your father died?" he asked, his voice flat, dead.

"Yes, but I handled it worse than you are doing now. I just about cried myself blind."

Joe took this in receptive silence. He turned his gaze to the floor at his feet, then after a long pause, he said, "I think she would rather that I wept for her if I could. I would that I had this function! How does it feel, to weep?"

This was new: someone who wanted to weep. Most Orga tried to avoid weeping, but now here was a Mecha who wanted that very thing. He felt a lump rise in his own throat.

"It feels…it feels tight in your throat, like there's something there and it won't budge. Your eyes feel hot and moist and then you feel the tears trickle down from the corners. Sometimes your nose drips too."

Joe looked straight at him. "But how does it _feel_?"

"Empty. You feel like everything has been torn out of your whole torso, like it's filled up with emptiness—that makes no sense. I'm sorry; I'm a roboticist, not a poet."

Joe put a hand on his breast. "I believe I feel this emptiness. Would that it came with the gift of tears. You weep for us both."

"Don't encourage me, I just might."

The funeral was modestly attended. Some of Serin's cousins and their children came, but most of the people who attended had some connection with Companionates. Serin was among the last of the old guard, the few who remembered the days of Mert Kroller, who had nearly mangled the Shohola division's competency forty years ago.

But those unfamiliar with Companionates kept asking Lutwyn who was that beautiful young gentleman who kept so strict a watch over the casket? That couldn't be Joseph, her husband; he'd have to be her age by now. Even if he'd had the new rejuv implants, he'd still show some signs of times passage, but he hardly looked like he'd reached his early thirties. Lutwyn had to explain to them that the dark stranger was Joe, Serin's life partner, a Mecha. A few people carefully avoided going near him…it…after that, but most hesitantly approached him to offer a word of consolation. Some turned away from him after they'd encountered that calm, steady, yet troubled gaze.

He knew they were offering condolences. He accepted them as politely as possible, but he saw some of the faces turn troubled and confused. He read fear on one or two as well; what had they to fear?

He turned away from these latter, letting go the dismay that touched his being. If he had a heart, there would have been little room for it any way. Lutwyn spoke of an emptiness that filled the being of the bereaved; he felt consciously a sensation that felt more like a shapeless mass in his awareness, like a blob of paint of a nameless color on a canvas, which he could not coax into taking a form.

At length the crowd paid its last respects to Serin and took their leave, going separate ways. The funeral director and his assistants approached; Lutwyn put a hand on Joe's shoulder.

"Do you want to be alone with her a moment?"

Joe looked at Serin's body, then over Lutwyn's shoulder at the funeral director. "I shall need perhaps a few moments."

The others went out. Lutwyn went out into the hallway.

Joe stood beside the casket, looking in at what remained of his beloved, his dearest one. Orgas claimed to something they called a "soul" which left at the moment of this event called death; he wondered where her soul had flown. He knew she couldn't hear him or feel his touch, but he had to do something for her.

He glanced over his shoulder at the open doors of the parlor. Lutwyn stood with his back to the door, no one else in sight.

He looked down at Serin. He listened once more for any movement outside, then he jerked his head to his left and let loose the music she had placed within him. He leaned down to her face once more and pressed his lips to hers.

They felt cold, colder than anything he could have perceived. He drew back slowly; when he stood erect, he switched off his music centers.

Lutwyn stepped into the room; he smiled slightly but tears showed in his eyes. "She would have liked that, Joe." He put his hand on his shoulder and led him out to the daylight.

"You're welcome to stay with us if you would rather not go back to the apartment just yet," Lutwyn offered.

"I think I would prefer that," Joe replied.

"Too many memories?" He immediately checked himself for that.

"There would be too much silent space."

He should have realized this, but he realized he could have thought of it himself. He knew he could possibly know exactly what Joe felt or thought in regards to this whole situation: Serin was Joe's whole world to some respect and with her gone, who knew what might happen to him.

Narsie had gone home early because she was still recovering from nanosurgery to her spine and she often felt tired; she let them in when they arrived at the Zipes' house.

"You doing all right, Joe?" she asked.

"I am doing well, all thing considered."

"I've invited him to spend the night here, we both thought it would be in his best interests."

She looked at Joe; he seemed lost in thought, his eyes dimly focused on the spray of dried grasses and cattails in the metal can in the vestibule. "I suppose he can sleep—I mean, stay in the guest bedroom. Is that okay with you, Joe?"

His eyes came to life and he turned to her. "Yes, I would appreciate that. Thank you."

"I'll show you the room," Lutwyn said. He put a brotherly and on Joe's shoulder and led him upstairs.

Over supper, Lutwyn described the rest of the funeral to her. Their talk gravitated to Joe.

"He seems shell-shocked," she observed.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Lutwyn said. "Don't let this on to him, not one word, but I have an ulterior motive in letting him stay with us: I'm keeping an eye on him to see how he readjusts. He's just lost his imprinter, so there's no telling what his reaction will be."

"But what about other imprinted Mechas? There must have been some Davids whose imprinter died."

"Funny you should mention that: Cybertronics has been loudly silent about the fate of many of the first generation Davids. And of course a child Mecha's reaction would differ greatly from an adult Mecha's reaction."

"So you're using Joe as a test case?"

"Only to the extent of notating what he does in the next few days."

"But why are you doing this?"

He licked his lips. "All right, I have an ulterior motive within an ulterior motive. The patent on imprint chips is about to expire in a few years, so Companionates wants to start manufacturing these chips and implanting them in custom job Mechas. Joe is the litmus test for feasibility."

She nodded. "But remember, that is a unique individual you're dealing with."

He grinned. "I'll remember: I grew up around him. Everything I know about making a woman happy I learned from him."

She laughed at this, but she quickly grew thoughtfully sober. "I hate to think of him alone. He's so vulnerable."

"We'll think of some way to help him if he doesn't."

"Could we imprint him? That way he'd have someone who'd love him."

"I hope you're kidding or you mean that with all due innocence. You're forgetting what he was originally built for."

"I forgot. I'm sorry; he's just so human, you forget sometimes.

"But wasn't Joe licensed to Serin?" she added. "What would happen if some one caught him?" Though there were some anti-Mecha activists who launched horrible demonstrations, Flesh Fairs had all but died out; the days of Kevin Lord Johnson-Johnson and his hideous "Celebration of Life" had passed, but not his spirit.

"Serin took care of that: there's a clause in her will that transfers Joe's license, on her death, to Companionates, so in a sense, he 'belongs' to the company." He wiggled his fingers like quotation marks as he said "belongs". "I'm seeing to it he has every chance to know freedom."

Freedom. He realized as soon as he said this, he'd chosen not quite the right word. It wasn't the same brand of freedom Orga claimed.

Narsie gave him a complex look. "Aren't _you_ forgetting what he is?"

"It was a slip of the tongue. He's so human you forget sometimes."

He had no need for rest, yet at that moment, the litmus test lay reclining on the bed in the guest room, gazing up at the skylight overhead. Serin's "soul" had fled beyond the stars, beyond the universe itself to that realm his kind could barely comprehend.

She had gone and he remained. He doubted he could stay long in the old apartment, what he had called his "home" for so long. With her gone, what would happen to him? At least he had Lutwyn Zipes and a few others as friends, and he had his artwork to support him. But there had to be more.

He'd have to think of something. In the meantime, he reached into his recall and let the tape of memory spool forward across his visual matrix, starting at the moment he had first seen Serin, face lifted, yearning forward from a crowd…

To him, she would always be young; of course he could not deny the image of her aged face, but to one part of his mind, she would always look as she had at one particular moment.

He could not remember what singled out this particular instance from the rest of their past together, but it seemed to have something to do with this gold ring upon the fourth finger of his left hand. He touched the ring with the fingers of his right hand, then twisted the ring off and held it the light of the bedside lamp.

SH 17 May 2170 JM2

He accessed the date, but could find no exact reference that matched the image in his mind's "eye". Was this what Orga called a "memory gap"?

SH. He knew these letters stood for Serin's initials, her first name, and Hagawa, her given name, though she went by her "married name" of Masters. He had used this surname to sign his paintings, but he knew it was not his name.

He knew somehow he had just one name, and this set him apart.

No true home, no surname; what else—besides the Obvious—set him apart from Orgakind?

He had his artwork, but there had to be a more practical application for his skills. Serin had been a designer for Companionates and he had seen her at work enough to learn some of what it entailed. With sufficient training, he could probably be just as good a designer as she.

But first things first, he had to find a residence close to the Zipes' house.

Someone tapped on the door.

He sat up and slipped his ring back on. "You may come in."

Lutwyn, in his shirtsleeves, opened the door and looked in. "Are you sitting in here in the dark?"

"It does not disturb me," Joe replied.

"If you like, you can come down to the living room, but only if you want to."

"I rather would like to, thank you." He stood up and followed Lutwyn down to the living room.

Narsie had decided to leave the two alone. She didn't mind being around Joe, but he was such a looker that her eyes always went to him, and she didn't want to trigger something in him. That was the only problem in being married to a Mecha designer: she said she knew too much about these things…beings, rather.

"I hope you weren't trying to weep up there," Lutwyn said, once they had sat down.

"It would prove fruitless, either way," Joe replied, with a smile. "I used my energies far more constructively." He described at considerable length the problems he had pondered before Lutwyn came up. "With Serin gone, I must sustain myself somehow, but I cannot seek these avenues alone, what with the animus against Mechas."

"Well, you're welcome to stay here with us. We have an apartment over the garage we were considering renting. You can have it if you like."

"I would not care to merely have this apartment, I would much prefer to pay for my rent as if I were any flesh and blood human tenant."

"You'd need steady employment to do that."

"I have given that thought as well; I have considered working for your company, if you will permit me."

Lutwyn raised his eyebrows. "For Companionates?"

"Yes, I would wish to work as a designer."

Lutwyn couldn't resist. "Are you planning on building a replica of Serin?"

The Mecha curled its nostrils delicately and turned his face a way slightly. "No, I harbored no such desire."

"Sorry, Joe, that was a cheap shot."

Joe relaxed his face and refocused on Lutwyn's face. "It is soon mended."

"I'd love to hire you, but you'd have to learn the finer points of design, and for that you'd have to go to school. But to enroll, you'd need a national identity card and a Social Security number, and you'd need a last name to do that."

He processed this for a moment. "You have lawyers. Could they not find a way in which I could qualify for these necessities?"

"I don't know offhand, but maybe we can work something out."

"But my first priority is lodging."

"I'll talk to Narsie about that."

"He's functioning normally," Lutwyn reported to Narsie later. "If anything, he's planning his future."

"He's _planning_?" Narsie said, putting down her book.

"Yeah, he wants to move out of Serin's apartment and live somewhere else. I offered him the apartment over the garage."

"The bathroom isn't finished."

"He won't need it."

She pretended to strike her forehead. "Of course not!"

"Furthermore, he wants a national identity card, so he can get a job working for Companionates."

"Wait, this is the same Joe we're talking about."

"This is Serin's Joe." He paused and looked to the bureau, at the framed photo of the four of them—Serin, Joe, Narsie and himself—at his uncle's beach cabin in Montclair. "Though if he has his way, we'll be calling him Joe Masters very soon."

The following day, Lutwyn took time off to help Joe pack his things and move them to the apartment. Galloway, one of the techs at Companionates and a college buddy of Lutwyn's, brought over his van to move the furniture. Narsie came along to help them sort through Serin's things. A few she wisely discarded—some old photographs of Serin's late husband—but most she kept or set aside to give away.

Late that evening, she glanced out their bedroom window and looked down into the unshaded windows of the apartment over the garage. A light shone in it and a tall, dark form moved about against it, unpacking boxes and hanging paintings.

Lutwyn came up beside her, unbuttoning his work shirt.

"It's so weird, it's like having a person up there," she said.

"We have a person up there, he's just not made of the same stuff."

"How is he?"

"About the same as when you left."

"Do you think he'll be okay?"

"The change would do most people in his situation a lot of good."

The apartment suited his few needs ideally. The large front room with the panorama window that faced the street he used as a studio, while one of the smaller inner rooms he set aside as an inner sanctum, a retreat of sorts; the other became a sort of wardrobe cum storage area. Both main rooms bore a look of spare luxury: the necessary chairs and tables and cushions, stacks of books on the floor, paintings on the walls. The inner one could not properly be called a bedroom, though a cushioned divan with a red simulsilk tapestry cover stood against one wall. Of course he never 'slept', but oftentimes, late at night he retired to this room and laid himself down on the divan to process new ideas or to simply let his recall play memories over his visual matrix.

David's child face came to his recall most often, almost as often as Serin's face. Had the little one ever found his Blue Fairy? Joe let the memory string play out from beginning to end, from the moment the little one had first grabbed his hand in the cage of the Flesh Fair, through their escape, to their journey to Rouge City, to their second escape to Manhattan. Perhaps someday, he might meet a man who resembled David; perhaps his origins would lead him to do something to aid the class he had emerged from and pay forward the privilege granted to him.

But his logic told him this was impossible: Orga was Orga, Mecha was Mecha; there would be no stepping across that divide, even though a few plank bridges had been dropped across.

Serin would have liked David. She might even have loved him. He briefly considered what life might have been like if David had stayed with him. Perhaps they could have formed a family; perhaps David could have bonded with Serin. It would be an odd arrangement, but human life was so odd anyway.

But it was a possibility he had to let go. It could never happen now. No use dwelling on the past except to remember it as it happened.

Joe's earnings as an artist were on technically 'his'; most of it went into a trust fund Serin had established for Joe's upkeep and maintenance, but Lutwyn saw to it Joe got a percentage of it for art supplies and his rent.

The first rent payment arrived with a large brown envelope. Narsie opened it to find a pencil drawing of Lutwyn and herself on their wedding day.

"Did you copy this from our wedding photo?" she asked Joe.

"No, I drew it from memory," he replied.

"Are you trying to bribe me?" Lutwyn insinuated, grinning.

Joe put his head on one side, processing this data. "No," he replied at length. "I am but reminding you of my second request: that of finding for me the legal aid necessary to applying for a national identity card."

"Well, I'll talk to Lefebvre, our Orga-Mecha relations advocate."

Something like hope showed in Joe's eyes. "I shall anticipate this meeting."

A week later, Lutwyn arranged the meeting, which would take place at Companionates. Lutwyn himself personally escorted Joe to Lefebvre's office. Along the hallway they passed had to pass through, several technicians and secretaries greeted Joe: his was a very familiar face. Lutwyn swore he saw some of the Mecha secretaries gaze at Joe with something like longing.

Lefebvre had been with the company for almost forty years; the younger members of the legal department, and of the rest of the Shohola division for that matter, referred to him as the "old relic" or "Hammurabi" behind his back.

Joe's processors formed a knot of uncertainty almost as soon as he first saw Lefebvre and Lutwyn had introduced them. The "Orga-Mecha relations advocate" was an older Orga, older than Serin had been, with a calm face deeply lined, and small eyes magnified by thick glasses.

"So you're Serin Masters's Mecha?" Lefebvre began, once Lutwyn had left the room.

"For all intents and purposes, I was her spouse," Joe replied.

"Ah, ahem, yes, that was what she said." He eyed Joe's left hand. "Now, what is this that brings you here? Looking for a share of her estate that was left in trust?"

"I do not require that, Mr. Lefebvre. I understand that she left her savings in trust for my continued upkeep."

"A technologically advanced version of the rich old grannies leaving their money to a lap dog," Lefebvre murmured.

Joe heard these words perfectly, but he found them so strange, he could hardly understand them. "Could you repeat that?"

"Oh it was nothing, nothing, just an old man's muttering." That didn't sound quite right.

"This has nothing to do with money; rather, it has to do with me as a Mecha."

Lefebvre shrugged with his thumbs. "And so?"

"I wish to obtain a national identity card, taking the name Joe Masters, taking my surname from my late imprinter."

Lefebvre nodded. "You realize this was Serin's marriage name."

"I am well aware of that."

"And you realize Serin built you as a simulacrum of her deceased husband, Joseph Masters?"

"I am well aware of that: I have seen the photographs of him; they made my eyes prettier than his."

Lefebvre chuckled for a moment, but his face grew suspicious. "So why the deuce do you want that? You won't need it."

"I do need it, it will be require of me if I am to get an education and find employment."

"There are thousands, millions of other Mecha in existence, none of them with a surname."

"As an artist, I used the name Joe Masters to sign my work. Now I wish to make it my legal name."

"You have a serial number and a registration number, what more could you want?"

"I want only recognition as a man."

"You are a Mecha."

"But I am no ordinary Mecha."

"I'm well aware of that," Lefebvre said, his voice dripping irony.

Silence ensued. Joe's processors ticked over the exchange, seeking the logical outcome as things stood.

He rose. "I have taken enough of your time, Mr. Lefebvre, and so I will take no more of it." Before Lefebvre could reply, Joe turned and stalked out of the office.

"Well, good luck to Lefebvre finding another client," Lutwyn said later that evening, when Joe came up to the house.

"He utterly lacks all understanding of human nature, Orga or Mecha," Joe replied.

"You mean you fired Lefebvre?" Narsie asked later that evening.

"The old man is close to retirement. Times have changed. If Companionates is to get the jump on those imprint chips, we have to move quickly. The old school of viewing Mechas as some kind of slave class below us is no longer feasible. I tried to get Lefebvre to reconsider, but he was adamant. He called Joe's idea a harebrained scheme; he even claimed that I put Joe up to this or that he might be malfunctioning!"

"Are you sure he isn't?"

"He just had a diagnostic two months ago, he's clean. Besides, one of the implications of imprinting is that the Mecha's self-awareness increases. Before imprinting, before he was wired for it, Joe knew he was only a machine, but now he knows there is more to him than that. He's more human than some humans now. He has more impetus for self-improvement than some flesh and blood people."

"But why does he want this? Why does he want to be like us? Isn't he content with his lot? Why not just find him another imprinter?"

"Joe has changed. He's not the gigolo Mecha that Mert Kroller's philistines turned him into when they appropriated Serin's design. He's been programmed to feel, to want what _he_ wants, and right now, being treated like a chattel, a plaything, a kept mechanical man is not what he wants any more. He wants what we have. Are any of us really content with our lot in life? Discontent is as much a part of the human condition as contentment is; it's what we're discontented with and what we do with it that's right or wrong, that shapes our future for good or ill. Joe isn't content with being treated like a mere Mecha, neither was Alan Hobby's David prototype. David went looking for a Blue Fairy to make him real; Joe realizes he'll never be a flesh and blood human, nor does he care to be, so he's seeking a more practical means to a similar end: being accepted by us as one of us. It's like that old saying: you can't change your prison, but you can change yourself."

"I still think he needs another imprinter."

"Is love the answer to everything?"

"Maybe it is."

Two weeks later, Lutwyn practically ran up the spiral staircase to Joe's apartment. He paused on the landing and knocked on the door.

The intercom trilled. "Who goes there?" Joe's voice asked, humorously.

"It's Lutwyn, can I come in for a minute?"

"Certainly you may." Always the proper grammar, one part perfection, one part the programmed parameters of his South London speech patterns.

The lock hummed and the door opened, swinging in. Joe stepped back, holding it open.

"Is that good news I heard in your voice?" he asked.

"Yes, very good news: we've just hired a new Mecha-Orga relations advocate. I told her about your case when I was interviewing her, and she's looking forward to working with you."

"'Working with me': did I hear those precise words?" He looked at Lutwyn with eyes cautiously askance.

"Yes, working _with_ you. She's a young lawyer, but she's good, and she enjoys working with people of both kinds."

He smiled with contented relief. "So she regards my kind as human? I look forward to with her, perhaps even more than she does."

"So, are you doing anything Monday morning?"

"There is little to speak of."

"Good, she wants to meet you then."

He widened his eyes slightly. "So soon? Perhaps her immediacy will match her effectiveness as an advocate."

"I guarantee it will."

Monday morning, Lutwyn brought Joe into his office, where a young woman with dark skin and short black hair waited for them.

"We've found a suitable young person to replace Mr. Lefebvre: Joe, this is Rhiannon Jackford, our new Mecha-Orga relations advocate. Rhiannon, this is the famous Joe we've been discussing."

"But if we play our cards right, you might be able to call yourself Joe Masters in a few weeks," Ms. Jackford said, extending her hand.

"I certainly hope that you can assist me in this undertaking," Joe replied, taking it.

She was not as pretty as Serin, but she had a beauty that, for an instant, nearly triggered his pursuit centers. But he knew this was utterly inappropriate to the situation, so he overrode them.

A few days later, Ms. Jackford put a manila envelope on Lutwyn's desk. He looked up from the report he was proofreading. The National Licensing Bureau seal showed on the envelope.

"You can give these to Joe; just make sure he realizes the application has to be approved by a board, and in his case it could take weeks."

"He'd be the first to say he has all the time in the world at your disposal."

After he got home, after supper, he brought the envelope up to Joe's apartment."

He almost did not hear the knock on the door; he lay on the divan in his inner retreat, gazing up at the painting of David and himself. In the hustle and bustle following Serin's death, he had not had time to complete it; but he had finished it just this afternoon.

Someone knocked on the door, harder, more insistently. He got up and went to answer it.

"Lutwyn? What brings you up here on this fine evening?" he opened the door to admit his landlord and best friend.

Lutwyn handed him a large manila envelope with an important-looking seal on its label. "National Licensing Bureau, State of East Pennsylvania" in hologram, green turning gold.

"Ms. Jackford brought this up today. You'll have to fill out these forms and provide a few proofs of existence."

"Proofs of, excuse me, what did you say?"

"Proofs of existence. I know, it's a stupid term."

"Another bureaucratic term: for a moment I thought either my processors were stuck in philosophical mode, or they were the ones philosophizing. What exactly shall they need?"

"A lot of things. I could print out some of the licensing documents from the company database."

Joe held up a finger. "Bu what would you use if you were in my position? I wish to conduct this in as Orga-like a manner as is possible, given my nature."

"Well, I'd have to provide some written and signed statements from three people who had witnessed my birth, school records, medical records, DNA chart, that sort of thing."

Joe smiled at the irony. "A DNA chart I could hardly provide. But you might consider the entries in the repair and maintenance log my 'medical records'. And there must be some visual or textual record of my inception."

"I'll see what I can come up with for that. If you want it, I can help you fill out the forms."

Joe's face relaxed as his processors took in this offer. "It is not so much a matter of want, as a matter of need."

Name: Joe Masters

Current mailing address: 24A Beacon Court, Shohola, East Pennsylvania

Previous addresses: Haddonfield, New Jersey; Rouge City, U.S.A.

Date of birth: February 14, 2160

Place of birth: Companionates, Shohola, East Pennsylvania

Gender: Male

Marital status: widowed

Height: 5'10"

Weight: 145 lbs.

Eye color: green

Hair color:

At that point, Lutwyn, who was scanning documents onto a disk, looked up in time to see Joe tuck his head slightly and give it a slight, steady shake form side to side as his hair color went form onyx black through brown to auburn to medium read to dark blond to platinum and back.

With a straight face, he looked up and asked, "Shall I put 'variable'?"

Lutwyn struggled to keep from laughing. "No, just put down your default color."

By Wednesday, Lutwyn had collected everything necessary and brought it along when he brought Joe to Ms. Jackford's office. A notary she brought in read over everything and, after a moment's stunned hesitation, holosealed the forms.

"At the risk of sounding impatient, how soon should the identity car arrive?" Joe asked.

Ms. Jackford pursed her lips. "It could take maybe ten days to two weeks. But in your case, it's more likely to take a month or longer. A LOT longer. And it might not even go through at all. Better start reading some long books."

"How shall I know when the application—or rather, my application—has been approved?"

"I'll personally bring the results—good or bad—to you," Ms. Jackford said.

He started re-reading an old favorite of his, the _Arabian Nights_ , which he had hand illustrated himself, adding half-Moorish, half-Klimtian illuminations to the margins and blank spaces on the pages. Lutwyn had also obtained another commission for him, designing the scenery and costumes for the Pittsburgh Lyric Opera's new production of _Der Rosenkavalier_ , which kept him busy since he also had to supply textile swatches for the workshop. Narsie helped him with this, since the bridal shop she worked for handled many different kinds of fabrics. He almost had no time to consider how long it took for his application to be approved.

Narsie told him that Ms. Jackford and he were not alone in this effort: Lutwyn and some of the public relations department started agitating public support. If people had obtained National Identity cards for their dogs and cats, why shouldn't a Mecha who displayed such Orga-like talent and capabilities be given the same privilege?

He saw some evidence of this agitation. The major newspapers carried an open letter Lutwyn had written describing Joe and his capabilities. When he went out for his morning walks and to buy art supplies, or when he was out with Narsie, several people recognized him from the TV and streaming video spots Lutwyn had had taped. Some, mostly the younger generation, approached him for a handshake or an autograph, or simply to offer an encouraging word. A few young women flirted with him, and while he gently accepted their attentions and reciprocated delicately, he deliberately overrode any stronger impulses from his pursuit centers.

But not everyone who recognized him favored him. He saw a few sneers of derision on older faces and a few approached him to tell him to his face to "get back in his place". He knew what they meant, so he calmly ignored their ignorance.

Almost a month and a half had passed, when the autumn rains had started turning to slushy snow, Narsie knocked at his door with good news.

"Ms. Jackford called a minute ago: she's got the results from the National Identity Bureau and she's bringing them over tonight."

"Is it for good or for bad?"

"She wouldn't say."

Later that evening, Ms. Jackford came up to his rooms, accompanied by Lutwyn.

"We've got something you'll want to see," she told Joe, calm-voiced, clearly trying to betray no emotion for good or ill. She held out a heavy plastic envelope to him. He took it; it had already been unsealed since it had a thumbprint reader on the flap. He had fingerprints etched onto the silicon skin of his hands, but he lacked the skin oil to make them readable.

He opened the envelope and took out a folded legal document, signed and stamped by the necessary authorities, and a smaller envelope. He opened it.

He drew out two thick plastic cards, one a card with his Social Security number, the other his National Identity card, bearing his picture.

Masters, Joe.

He turned the card over. The back bore a large red M etched into the surface where the barcodes for DNA and fingerprint information would have been: M for Mecha.

His equilibrium motivator seemed to give way; he sank down on a chair, his eyes still scanning the card, as if he hadn't inputted all the data.

He looked up at Ms. Jackford and Lutwyn. "Thank you," he said. "You cannot know what this means to me."

He rose and put one arm about her shoulders in gratitude. He released her and extended his hand to Lutwyn. I cannot thank either of you enough."

"It just goes to show, if you put your mind to something, you can get it," Lutwyn said.

"Even if that mind is of silicon conductors and chip boards," Joe pronounced.

To be continued…

Afterword:

This was a hard one to write, and it may take a while to complete, especially since I've taken up a few other writing projects, including sending jokes and things to _Reader's Digest_ magazine in order to generate myself some income; and at the urging of my friend "fom4life", I took up a half-abandoned fanfiction project, a sequel of sorts to _The Truman Show_ , which he encouraged me to finish (and this is the same guy who told me to find some more lucrative application for my writing!). But I've taken Ray Bradbury's example: when he started writing science fiction stories (at my age, 25!), he made himself the goal of writing and sending out a story a week for a year, with the thought that he'd get a few good ones out of the lot; the same goes for my fanfictions.

Literary Easter Eggs:

-`- -An emoticon rose, for those who aren't familiar with this one; Laurie Smith and a few others use stars (*****) to divide the scenes in their fictions, but I thought I'd do something a little different.

Joe's imprint date, "17 May"—This date has some personal significance: it's the day I finished watching "A.I.".

"more human than most humans"—One can't completely avoid a _Bladerunner_ reference: This mildly paraphrases the Tyrell Corporation's motto "More Human Than Human".

"Hammurabi"—This refers to the Sumerian Code of Hammurabi, one of the oldest known codes of law, which predate the Ten Commandments by at least a thousand years (I'm showing my seams: I'm a history buff!).


	2. Rebirth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Chapter II

Rebirth

Author's note:

Dedicated to Darren Goad of the Merrimack Special Educational Center, and to Judy Green of the Massachusetts Rehabilitation Commission, who are, in some ways, the Lutwyn Zipes and Rhiannon Jackford of my life, as I work toward getting a "real" job. I just hope I can still write this crazy stuff of mine on the side!

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I did not invent or devise the Three Laws of Robotics, which are the creation of the late Isaac Asimov, though for the purpose of the plot, I have devised a companion version to them.

A few months later, Joe applied at a local community college for their Robotics and Robotic Design course; the admissions process went through almost as easily as the Identity Card application process had been difficult. Though he expected some displays of consternation from the faculty and students, he hardly expected the stares of blank curiosity and shock that met him when he entered the classroom for the first session.

He made every effort to blend in with the rest of the student body; he even laid aside his usual neo-Romantic mode of dress and adopted the shapeless, more casual style that typified the college. But he still stood out from the rest. One instructor nearly put him out, until Joe showed his student ID.

But he proved his capabilities: he completed a year's work in one semester. In three years, he finished five years of work and received his Master's degree, a remarkable achievement for anyone, much less a Mecha.

But Ackmar, the professor of Robotic Design, thought it necessary to chide him gently for one paragraph in his thesis, which he had written on Serin's work.

"I could be wrong, but it sounds a little self-congratulatory," Ackmar admitted. "'Among her early designs stands out the model Masters herself regarded as her _magnum opus_ , a lover-Mecha she called by the working title "Joe 2.0" since she modeled the design from her late husband, the British-born danseur Joseph Masters. Originally conceived as a simulacrum of her life's partner, the design was arbitrarily confiscated by Companionates' Pennsylvania division chief Merton Kroller, who had the design brought to production as the short-line model JO-4379'."

"I wrote this merely to serve as a tribute to a pioneer designer and to advance the subject through examples," Joe replied, modestly.

"You were writing about yourself."

"I wrote about myself as a mechanical being. It would be like you writing about your Semitic kinsmen from an organic or anthropological viewpoint. I could have been writing about anyone of the other four others built from this design."

"Your studies in this field must be somewhat self-exploratory."

"In a manner of speaking, yes, they have been very enlightening in regard to my nature."

"Why did you choose robotics as a career?"

"Why does a man choose to study medicine? He would say he chose it because he can best serve his fellow man through this field and this service."

"So you want to help your kind?"

"I wish to help my kind learn to accept my kind and to help my kind assimilate better with your kind."

"Why would you want this? What purpose would it serve?"

Joe fixed Ackmar with his gaze. "It serves the purpose of teaching future generations of Orga to realize that we Mecha have as much potential as they, and so that Mechas may soon work in this world unmolested and in harmony with men."

"I don't follow your line of reason."

"You could follow it—no, you could understand it if you had endured the kind of abuse and false accusations I have had heaped upon me by the ignorant of Orgakind."

Shortly after graduation, Joe applied at Companionates for a job; a position as a junior draftsman had opened and human resources soon hired him.

Lutwyn took no part in hiring Joe, but he insisted that the other members of design treat him as an equal, as nobody more different than they were.

Still, Joe's presence caused some fluttering among the young women in his work group. They started vying for his attention, which he gave them in tantalizingly small doses, though he made it clear the tantalizing was all in their imagination.

To one girl named Sokhar, a secretary, who made a habit of passing by his cubicle at every opportunity she could, he calmly said, hardly looking up from his drawing desk, "There are other desks you can walk by; why not delight the occupants thereof with your presence?" This put her off for a while, but within a few days she had resumed her promenade. After a week of this, he finally said to her, "Did you not also sign the sexual harassment clause when you were hired?"

"Fancy someone-thing like Joe accusing me of that!" Sokhar said to her two friends, Astarte and Chauncey as they hung about the coffee nook/kitchenette in one corner of the design wing. "I mean, he was a sex Mecha when they first built him, wasn't he?"

"He was designed with a lot more than just _that_ in mind," said Astarte, one of the senior designers. She'd been a high school intern back when Serin was still working.

"So what's with the prudishness now? Something shot in his programming?"

"You were getting a little annoying about it," said Chauncey, one of the project managers. "He's like everyone else: he needs his space."

At that moment, Joe entered the nook, carrying the small crystal bud vase he kept on his desk, minus its usual spray of flowers or, now that it was autumn, colored leaves. Politely excusing himself, he emptied the vase into the sink and refilled it before taking his leave of them. Sokhar's eyes followed him until he turned the corner of the hallway, out of sight.

"Leave the poor fellow alone, he still misses Serin," Astarte said.

"Yeah, there's a bet going on in construction that Joe's gonna design and special-order a sim of Serin," Chauncey said. "The pool's up to 200 NB already."

"I doubt he'd do that," Astarte said.

"How do you know?" Sokhar said.

Astarte shook her head sagely. "I can't say why exactly, but he's too human to want anyone less than a flesh and blood woman. He's been around Orga for so long that he's less Mecha than he was. I can just remember when he was first imprinted, when he'd come up here once in awhile to visit. You could tell he was still new to having real feelings; but as time went on, he got more and more like us. Sometimes he seems more human than some humans I know, like the manager of the grocery store where my grandson works, or my ex-husband, late husband now."

All of three weeks passed before Sokhar tried anything again. Astarte spotted the incident; when Sokhar had gone to lunch, she approached Joe to offer some help.

"Is Sokhar bugging you again?"

Joe looked up from the sketchpad he was occupied with. "Alas, yes, she has resumed her not wholly appropriate attentions," he admitted.

Astarte glanced toward Sokhar's empty cubicle. "Perhaps you could give her a taste of her own medicine. I'm sure you'd know just what to do."

He smiled at this suggestion. "I know only too well what I could do, but the key is to do so in such a way that she will no longer disturb me by her attentions."

By the time Sokhar came back from lunch, Joe's processors had devised a very simple trick.

As Sokhar passed by the cubicle of the Object of her Affections, she felt someone's gaze follow her. She glanced back. She found Joe intently occupied with his work.

She passed by his desk again later, to get herself a drink of water. She felt someone's tenderly penetrating gaze, only to find the owner of that gaze absorbed in his work.

This happened every day for three days, until one day Sokhar caught him looking at her, his eyes tracking her before his head turned to follow his gaze, his movement fluid but machine-like. She quickly returned to her desk.

Lutwyn got a chuckle out of this incident when Joe related it to him much later.

"I was about to have a little talk with her about this walking by your desk nonsense, but I think you put a stop to it by yourself."

Joe looked away modestly as if he were blushing. "I certainly hope my efforts will have their desired effect.

A year later, the patent on imprint chips expired. Companionates jumped on the chance to modify the design and market the option with their newer models and custom jobs.

It was a good year for Joe. First, his _Rosenkavalier_ design was approved by the general manager and the artistic director of the Pittsburgh Lyric Opera; then a publisher of simuleather editions of classic books offered to publish a facsimile version of his hand-embellished version of the _Arabian Nights_. And lastly, he was promoted onto a project group dealing with imprinting chips.

About this time came his twice a year repairs and upgrades, which counted as "sick leave". Lutwyn saw to it Joe was paid no more and no less than any other employee of his status, although there was some question about health insurance deductions; the accountant redirected this to "repairs" instead.

He had a few more pressing than usual repairs: some corrosion on his spine, which meant a section had to be replaced, and he'd had trouble with a sticky servo in his left knee. But he had another idea.

"Tear reservoirs?" Galloway, the chief of repairs demanded.

"Yes, I have even created my own design, given the contours of my facial features," Joe replied.

"This might take a while to build."

"I can endure the wait; it shall make it more worth the while."

The word leaked back to Rhiannon that Joe was having an upgrade very few of the company—except Lutwyn—anticipated. She got permission to watch the procedure unobtrusively.

The techs had the work area prepped before Joe arrived. A moment later, Galloway entered the workroom escorting Joe. The Mecha wore the non-descript, sleeveless, form-fitting black jumpsuit typical of Companionates models just out of assembly and programming, but he had with him a small MP3 player, which he set on the worktable before he mounted it.

"What music you bring today?" one of the techs asked.

"I have a sampler of some quiet classical pieces to keep me quiet as you work," he said, switching it on. Debussy's "Reveries" played softly; he leaned back on a neck prop as Galloway pressed the release switches on the inside of Joe's upper jaw and the base of his neck.

For a moment, Joe reclined peacefully, his face calm. But then his expression went blank and his faceplate lifted up and swung away from the gray metal infrastructure underneath.

Rhiannon almost gasped and gave herself away behind the two way mirror used for training; but the sound caught in her throat as one of Galloway's assistants gently detached the face plate and laid it aside. A gray cube emerged from the Mecha's forehead; a third tech took it out and brought it over to a workbench with a laptop on top. He connected a cable attached to the laptop to the small gray box and set to work uploading some data. Galloway worked at attaching something to the inside of the faceplate.

She'd seen upgrades and repairs before, but those had involved other Mechas. She'd plead Joe's case before the Licensing Board. She didn't see him often, but she enjoyed her brief encounters with him in the hallways and walkways of the complex. But seeing this voluble, likeable young man lying serenely on a worktable, his face removed showing the dull metal structure, the mechanical skull beneath his silicon skin, took her breath away. At least the classical music soothed her vibrating nerves. She wondered if he felt any of this.

At length the programmer removed the cable from the memory cube and lowered it into its cavity. Galloway reattached the faceplate. With barely audible whir of tiny motors, the faceplate swung back into place and resealed itself.

"Give him a minute to recalibrate," Galloway said.

Joe's eyelids flicked and his eyes swung up, the down, then to the left, then to the right.

He sat up and switched off the player as if nothing had happened.

"So, y'gonna road test them tear reservoir?" Galloway asked.

"Yeah, go out an' rent a three-hanky 2-D flick," the programmer suggested.

Joe smiled. "There might not be any 'road test' as you call it until something requires this option to take effect."

One they had gone and cleared the room, Rhiannon hurried back to her office, fascinated and shaken.

She met him in the hallway later that day.

"I heard you were in for repairs and upgrades," she said. "Did you design those tear ducts yourself?"

"Yes, it was a student design; Lutwyn had a prototype built. They installed the beta version today."

"That's quite a step for you, perhaps for your kind."

"There have been other robots who have had this function, but there has not been, to my knowledge, an adult Mecha who was given this privilege."

"There's something to be said for the fact that you just called it a privilege."

"What something would you say?"

"I'd say you're becoming more real. Most people shun it, but there's something about pain that makes you stronger. That's what human history is about: pain and suffering and the lengths people go to avoid it and the worse pains they get themselves and their neighbor into when they try to dodge it, and the suffering they inflict one each other because they won't let themselves love their fellow man."

Ms. Jackford's words lingered in his recall, just on the surface, not disrupting his normal processing, but enough to set him on alert that he might be malfunctioning. Was this what Orga called having a thought stuck like a splinter in ones mind?

The following evening, instead of going home with Lutwyn, he went to the library instead.

The librarians at the main desk didn't give him a second glance as he walked through. But a girl page reshelving books looked at him with her brows lowered, "puzzled" because she encountered him among the shelves of books on robotics. He guessed her thought, what's a Mecha doing here?

"Excuse me, miss, but do you have any books or documents that would constitute a history of robots?"

"Well, there's this," she pulled down a thick volume, _The History of Robotics_ by Hideki.

"I did not mean a history of robotics, which constitutes the development of robots as machines; rather, I meant a history of robots as beings."

"Huh? You'll have to ask the head librarian."

"Thank you anyway, miss."

He consulted the online catalog; one title caught his attention, a book called _The Complete Robot_ by one Isaac Asimov. He searched it down, but he found it amongst the science fiction. No matter, sometimes fiction presented one with ideas that proved useful, even if it did not supply concrete data. Think of David and his Blue Fairy.

But oddly enough, this collection of fictional stories supplied him some useful data, something Asimov called the Three Laws of Robotics:

1\. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm;

2\. A robot must obey the orders given it by a human being except where such orders would conflict with the First Law;

3\. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

The more he processed these, the more he realized they did not just apply to robots. If he made a few adjustments and substitutions, he could apply them to Orga relations toward Mechas.

He carefully jotted this down in his journal.

He waited until after work the next day to report his find to Lutwyn.

"I believe I have made a discovery that may completely change the relationship between Orga and Mecha," Joe announced. "How familiar are you with a writer called Isaac Asimov?"

"I've read his robot stories if you'll excuse my indulging in fantasies about your kind."

"You have done no harm; this puts you in a better position to comprehend what I have proposed." He took his handheld datascriber from his pocket and opened a document.

If Lutwyn didn't know this Mecha as well as he did, he might have questioned its motive or functionality.

"Joe, I think you've discovered something so obvious, not Orga has thought about it before. Ms. Jackford will want to hear about it."

Rhiannon always had her lunch in the atrium garden in the middle of the Companionates complex. She sat on the end of the same bench eating the sandwich she'd packed the night before. Usually she read her personal mail while she ate.

She sensed someone approach her.

"Is this seat taken?" a gentle voice asked.

She looked up. Joe stood before her with a small datascriber in his hand.

"No, you can sit here." She moved herself and her lunch pack to give him a little more room as he sat down next to her.

"I made a discovery the other night which Mr. Zipes thinks you might find useful. But first, how familiar are you with the Three Laws of Robotics devised by Isaac Asimov?"

"I practically have them tattooed on my arm; I could recite them in my sleep."

"In which case, you will understand what I have discovered." He turned the scriber around to her.

The Three Laws of Organics

Proposed by Joe Masters, after Isaac Asimov

1\. An Orga may not injure a Mecha or through direct inaction allow a Mecha to come to harm.

2\. An Orga may order a Mecha only within the bounds of logic and the Mecha's specific programming, except when such orders would conflict with the First Law of either Robotics or Organics.

3\. An Orga must protect its own and its Mecha's life and functionality.

"This is just what I've been trying to tell people," she said. "You beat me to codifying it."

"Perhaps I was supposed to discover something your kind could not imagine."

"I have a few friends in politics who might be able to agitate for you. You really should expand on this."

"I must be honest with you and say I would prefer to apply these rules proactively."

"How would you do that?"

"I have not planned how I would accomplish this. There must be some historical model I could work from."

A question came into her head. "I don't mean to pry, but how do you know this?"

"Know of what?"

"Know about the human condition, how we've treated each other all these years."

"I have observed how people treat one another: all too often they do not treat the diverse of their kind with deferential much less charitable behavior. For instance, I have heard some of the junior interns speak of you in less than polite terms."

"What did they say?"

"I should not repeat them; they are not worth your hearing."

"Say 'em, Joe. I've probably heard them before."

He hesitated. "In which case, I hope this was not the first time some uncouth, ignorant person has referred to you as a snot-nosed nigger princess."

She rolled her eyes and laughed. "That's wicked mild compared to the stuff I've had said to my face."

"So you understand that of which I speak."

"I don't just understand it, Joe, I know it. But if you're looking for historical models to work from, you might want to start with the slavery of African-Americans in the 1800s or the Holocaust of the 1930s and 1940s, in Central Europe."

"I shall investigate these as soon as possible. And I shall also prepare an elaboration upon the Three Laws of Organics."

"You certainly keep busy," she noted.

"But not so busy that I have no time for leisure."

She almost asked him point blank what he meant by leisure if he didn't need to rest, but she realized he was so Orga-like that he needed some "down time" between tasks. Besides, he was an artist.

After work that afternoon, Joe went back to the library to follow up on Rhiannon's suggestions.

"What's Joe getting at?" Rhiannon asked Zipes on the way out of the complex the following afternoon.

"I don't know. I want to think he's paying forward the favors he's received from us. Pops always said there was something special about Joe, after all he'd survived."

"There's more to it."

"What, are you concerned about creating a justification for the Frankenstein complex? Y'know, like he's trying to help his kind get the jump on us stupid flesh heads?"

She tried not to snort derisively. "Of course not. No, it's something else: I just can't put my finger on it."

"It's probably part of the implications of imprinting. He's more like a human, so he wants to be treated like a human." He eyed her narrowly. "Admit it, Rhiannon, you like him."

"I never said that. What makes you imply that I do?"

"You're talking high falutin' stuff, but there's a look in your eye that doesn't jive."

"How would you know that?" she tried not to snip."

"Don't forget: a pro taught me how to understand women."

"Now what would Narsie say to that?"

"She'd act a little jealous at first, but she knows I save the lot for her. Which reminds me," he looked at his watch. "I gotta run; I'm supposed to meet her at the Royade Hotel. We're celebrating: we got the license."

She crossed her eyes at him. "Oooohh! Lucky you! I hope it takes."

He grinned. "It probably will."

As he went, she drew in a deep breath and counted to ten to suppress the tears that came to her eyes.

When Joe came up to the house the following evening, he betrayed such animation, Lutwyn wondered if something had overridden some of the imprinting neurons in his processors and he'd fallen for someone. But looking into the Mecha's face, he realized it was the animation of conviction.

"I have found a historical model from which to work," Joe announced. "I was hoping to put my proposed Three Laws into practice, and I had been looking for some means to apply them in a way that would benefit as many of my kind as possible. And so, at the prompting of Ms. Jackford, I have examined some of your history. You have, I trust, heard of the Sho'ah of the 1940s?"

"Yes. One of Narsie's ancestors went through a prison camp at a place called Auschwitz."

"How unfortunate. There was a man called Oskar Schindler who prevented the deaths of approximately one thousand, two hundred and sixty-five persons of Jewish ancestry. These people worked in the armaments factory he ran, and when the Nazi overlords, with whom he once fraternized, had no more use for these people, he bought back his workers' lives."

"What are you getting at?"

"How much money is in the trust fund?"

"About a million and a quarter NB."

"Good then, every cent will be needed. I propose to use it to purchase the functionality of any Mecha who is being abused on a regular basis."

"It's a charitable idea, but I'm afraid you'd soon exhaust the fund. You're on to something there. Maybe it might be more practical to rescue the unlicensed derelict Mechas in the woods."

Joe's face took on a look of concern and even fear, but he soon relaxed his face.

"They have no owners to tend to their needs, and it would save them from the inevitable," he said.

A couple evenings later, as Rhiannon was signing out of the security computer, Galloway, the chief of repairs came up to her.

"Hey, Ree, you got plans tonight?"

"No, not really, but I might think of something."

"Well, don't think too hard: how'd you like to go for a walk in the woods with me and Joe, looking for derelict Mechas?"

"Why derelict ones?"

"Well, we ain't gonna throw 'em through the Mecha chopper. No, Joe's got this grand idea in his processors: thinks he's gonna save some beat to death Mechas and find new homes for 'em."

She realized this must be part of Joe's new mission to champion the less fortunate of his kind.

"Well, sure."

"Good, I'll tell 'm. Pick you up around seven tonight? Oh, and wear like hiking stuff."

"I will."

At seven she heard Galloway's vancruiser pull up outside in her driveway. She threw on a sweatshirt and a pair of old blue jeans, and tied back her hair with a red bandanna as she shoved her feet into her running shoes.

When she stepped outside, she found Joe and Galloway waiting for her: Galloway sitting perched on the nose of the cruiser while Joe, clad in a plain, dark green flannel shirt over black corduroys, stood leaning gracefully against the side of it.

"So what did she say to you?" Galloway said.

"She asked me quite directly, 'What's the quickest way for me to get seduced by you?' to which I replied, 'Unfortunately, the quickest way requires a certain knowledge of electrical engineering'."

"So what'd she say then?"

"She replied to me, 'I think I can handle that, I'm the one fixing your hip servo'. So I said to her, 'To express this in as few and precise terminology as possible: Turn me on'."

Galloway almost fell off the nose of the cruiser laughing. Joe replied with a polite chuckle. Rhiannon shook her head, but she couldn't help laughing with them. They sounded exactly like a couple of regular single guys, except for the finer points of the story.

"What did I miss?" she asked.

"Joe was just telling me about this new girl tech we got in repairs, how she was hitting on him when he was in the other week."

"Uh oh! I don't like the sound of that; sounds like she needs a little sensitivity training."

"I handled her behavior as best as I could, given the circumstances."

Galloway just got in the driver's seat, but Joe helped her into the front seat; since there was only one passenger seat, Joe ended up sitting on the floor. She wanted to switch with him, but he graciously insisted he was fine where he was.

They drove several miles out into the countryside, past farms and small settlements, into the empty ranks of forests. They turned off onto a little-used path that brought them deep under the trees.

At length they came to a small clearing. Galloway pulled up and killed the lights on the van. Rhiannon's eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness after a moment, but Joe seemed unaffected by it.

"Wanna help me unload, Ree? Ah, Joe, y'might wanna stay here," Galloway said, getting out.

Joe followed him out nonetheless and went round the front to help Rhiannon down. She went round to the back.

Galloway opened the back hatch and climbed inside.

Metallic objects started rolling out. Joe, who stood close to the back stepped back several steps, his eyes lowered to the growing pile.

"What's that for?" Rhiannon asked over the clank and clatter.

"Bait," Galloway said. He crept into the front of the van and drove it into the bushes.

Joe stood rooted to the ground staring at the pile until Rhiannon took him by the arm and led him back to the van.

"Give 'em a few minutes, they'll come," Galloway said.

The three of them sat just inside the back of the van, watching the clearing. The moon slowly rose over the treetops, casting a soft silver blue light on the leaves and glinting off the metal pieces lying on the ground.

"Whence came these parts and pieces you have placed out there as 'bait'?" Joe asked Galloway. Rhiannon detected a note of concern, even mild reproach in his tone.

"Have no fear, Joe, no Mechas were harmed in the collecting of the bait. Actually, some of them were rejects from quality control, others were worn stuff I got after a day of repairs. I think there's a servo we took out when we replaced your hip. I added a few fresh batteries to the mix."

"Would it be proper to inflict my worn out parts on them?"

"They sure ain't so worn as what they got."

The bushes stirred. Branches parted. Silvery forms limped out of the shadows. Some dragged themselves across the ground. Flakes of broken dermis fell off some as they moved. The stronger ones reached the pile first and started rummaging about.

Joe got down form the van. He stood there in the clearing for a moment, a shadow backlit by the light. He stepped closer to them. They, the others, the battered derelicts, looked at him but they went on digging.

Rhiannon got down. A thought struck her: would these Mechas, seeing one of their own intact try to dismantle him? But they regarded him not much more than they regarded each other.

One, a secretary model dressed in the tattered rags of a once-neat black suit fitted a hand to her wrist. Another, clad in a doorman's uniform attached a foot to its ankle.

A slim, shapely female Mecha detached itself from the crowd and approached Joe. Her gait had probably been an enticing sashay—she wore what remained of a sleek black catsuit—but she hobbled, her path zigzagging drunkenly. Her faceplate hung knocked awry, her infrastructure showed around her eyes. Half of her blue-black hair had been torn from her scalp.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" the Mecha asked, her voice a metallic chirp. Even her voice synthesizer had suffered.

Joe stood transfixed, but he stepped closer to her. "Hey, Jane, what's the gain?" he replied, as if it were some code.

"Where have you been all this time?"

"I have dwelt not far from here."

"I should have seen you then, but I did not."

"One woman had owned me for many years, but now I own myself."

She said nothing to this at first; it probably escaped her comprehension. Then she asked, "Did you ever find out?"

"What did I ever find out?"

She took what was meant to be an enticing step closer. "What we're like, darling."

"Alas, I have not."

"Then maybe you'd like to now." She put her arms about his neck. Rhiannon started to look away.

The female Mecha—Jane—suddenly stumbled sideways. Joe reached out and caught her before she hit the ground. Jane giggled, but not with delight or relief, just a hollow sound like a maniac's laugh.

Joe looked to Galloway. "It is she, it is Jane. I knew her back in the old time before, back in Haddonfield."

"Found yer long lost love, eh?" But Galloway's voice had lost some of its irony.

"We must get her out of here; she shall be our first."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I do not merely suggest, I intend to have her repaired, perhaps reprogrammed."

"To imprint?" Rhiannon asked.

Joe looked at her; she could tell by his face he hadn't thought of that. "Perhaps I could do this for her."

Joe helped Jane back to the van. Her legs buckled, so he carried her the rest of the way; climbing into the back of the van, he laid her down on the floor.

Rhiannon wondered if the tenderness she saw in his movements came from his programming or her perception.

"Well, I guess she'd make a good start," Galloway said, getting in the front. "But I can't make no guarantees." Rhiannon got in beside him.

Jane kept giggling and babbling gibberish as they drove back. Galloway put on the dome light and glanced into the back.

"No offense, but could you find the volume control on her, Joe? Her racket is fraying my nerves."

"I was about to do so myself. Jane, open please?" The command sounded so Orgalike coming from him. Jane opened her mouth in a loud laugh as Joe pressed the release switches. She kept jabbering even as her faceplate lifted away. He pressed a switch on her chin. She stopped; he closed her face again.

When they got back to Joe's apartment, Galloway tried to help Joe carry Jane up the stairs, but Joe insisted on doing the honors and took her himself.

"Now don't you two try any funny stuff tonight," Galloway said. "Especially with her switched off."

"I had not intentions in that regard, at least not for this night," Joe said. He carried her into the inner room and laid her on the divan. He leaned over her as if he meant to kiss her, but he drew back and stood up. "First thing in the morning, shall we start repairing her?"

"I'd say first thing in the morning I'll run a diagnostic on her. She's in terrible bad shape, Joe."

Joe turned to Rhiannon. He held out his hand to her. "Could you trace her licensing record for me and, if at all possible, have her transferred to me?"

"I'll see what I can find; it may not be so simple."

"Whatever the results, you will have done your best."

When his friends had left, Joe brought his sketchpad to the side of the divan and sat on the floor to sketch Jane's image as she lay there.

"I know you cannot hear me," he said to her. "But I will speak to you anyway. I have never forgotten you, not that my memory of you could ever fade, and I know the same goes for you, that you have not forgotten me either. But one can recall the memories and fail to acknowledge the beings in those memories. Now we will not have to rely solely on memory. Now it can be the two of us together, you and I. There is much, so much I can teach you, I and my friends. Through their hands and mine you shall have a whole new life you could not possibly perceive before. But most importantly, we can teach you something I didn't know I was capable of until someone taught me how. It is something you and I just barely knew the palest shadow before and it is something very painful, but it is worth all the suffering."

He knew he'd have his hands full teaching her how to fit in as he had, but if he could do it, so could she, with the proper programming. Nevertheless, first things first: she had to be repaired.

As the night deepened before the dawn came, he set aside his pad and laid himself down beside her on the divan, hardly daring to touch her in case his emotion should overflow.

Lutwyn usually drove Joe to work, but that morning as he stepped out into the sunlight, he saw Galloway's vancruiser pull into the drive.

"I guess you didn't hear about the excitement last night," Galloway said, walking with Lutwyn up to the garage side door.

"I guess not. I heard from Rhiannon that Joe had got an idea to retrieve unlicensed Mechas and bring them in for repairs and placement."

"Well, he's got one now, a JN-8523 he says he knew in Haddonfield. It's pretty beat up, so I told him I couldn't make any guarantees about fixing, well, her."

The door opened and Joe emerged, carrying a female Mecha in his arms.

"Good morning, Joe. I see you've got company there," Lutwyn said.

"Yes, we discovered her last night in the forest. She is an ideal subject for my intended project," with a mildly suggestive smile he added, "Though, I'm afraid to admit, her case does not lack an ulterior motive on my part."

"Galloway was telling me about your finding her. Is it true you knew her in Haddonfield? Are you sure she's the one?"

"It is good that you ask this, because, you see, she knew me first. She came up to me and said quite clearly, 'Hey Joe, whaddya know?'"

"She did," Galloway affirmed.

Lutwyn assessed the female Mecha as Joe carried her to Galloway's van. He hated to sound like a killjoy, but he didn't like the look of the damage done to her.

Later, Jane lay spread on a work table in repairs, every release joint in her skin open, every section folded back, some removed completely, from breakage or for access as the techs worked over her diligently, running diagnostics on all of her internal mechanisms.

Joe stood off to one side, watching, his thumbnail pressed to his lower lip in a strangely realistic gesture of genuine unease and concern.

Lutwyn had heard of Mechas who had been functional so long their behavior had grown uncannily Orga-like, but he had never actually seen it up close, but the concern he read on Joe's face made him think of the concern on the faces of the loved ones of an accident victim, waiting for the results of the operation.

"Equilibrium motivator's shot; locomotion differentiator's fried; infrastructure's almost corroded through in a couple places. The battery contacts are so corroded they're barely drawing power," Galloway muttered.

"How old is she?" an apprentice tech asked.

"About fifty if she's a day, which is a good long time for one of her make; they stopped making ones like her about twenty years ago."

"What's the verdict?" Lutwyn asked.

Galloway shook his head. "The damage is too extensive."

Joe cut in. "There must be something you can do for her."

"I'm sorry, Joe, she's on beyond repair. With the man-hours we'd spend, it would be easier and cheaper to build a new one. Even if we could fix her, there's no guarantee she'd hold up after that. The risk is too great."

Joe looked at Galloway dead on, eyes cold. "So you would give up on her so easily?"

"We have no choice. I wish I could fix her for you. But there's a limit to what we can do. She got neglected for too long and there's no telling how long she was out there in the woods. She's been abused. She's about your age, but she didn't have the good care you've been fortunate to have had."

Joe looked from Galloway's face to Jane's form. "What then do you propose to do with her?"

Galloway spread his hands in defeat. "I'll have to put her down and dismantle her."

Joe nodded slowly. "Do what you must. You have done you level best. But God damn the Orga who let her get to this state."

With that he strode from the workroom, his back very straight.

Astarte found him seated at his drawing desk, holding his head in his hands, his work untouched.

"Joe, are you all right?" she asked.

He did not look up. "Must I lose everyone whom I love? It seems my kismet."

She put a motherly arm around his shoulders. "I heard all about Jane. I'm sorry it had to happen. Maybe you should take the rest of the day off; I'll go clear it with Jarkin." The design director sometimes kept a tight hand on the project teams.

Joe turned his face towards hers. "I would appreciate you doing so."

Narsie, working in her garden, was surprise to see a company car from Companionates pull up and drop Joe off at the foot of the driveway. She got up to ask him what was wrong, but he walked by her, head down, his strides too fast and purposeful.

Lutwyn tried to go up to Joe's rooms that night, but his knocks received no answer. Joe was in the apartment: some sort of minimalist music played inside.

Rhiannon's phone rang as she had her supper the following night. She answered it, wondering who on earth would call her now.

"Ms. Jackford? It's Zipes."

"Is anything wrong?"

"Yeah. Could you come up here to Joe's apartment? He won't let me in."

"I'll be right over."

Narsie met her on the driveway and led her to the staircase inside the garage. "He's been so close to you we both wondered if you could get in there. He's been like this since he got home yesterday."

"What did he do, call in sick or is it malfunctioning?" The joke soured on her own lips. Narsie buzzed the intercom. No reply. She buzzed again. "Joe? Ms. Jackford is here; she'd like to speak to you."

A rustle and then some disconsolate music. "She may come in," his voice replied, so flat-voiced they both barely recognized it.

Narsie went down. Rhiannon tested the latch; it was off smart and it was unlocked. She opened the door and went in.

Lyrical but desolate minimalist music played; it gave her the image of someone swimming out to into the ocean alone, swimming as far as they could go only to let go and sink into the depths, letting their last breath out. Papers littered the floor, sketches, scratches. She picked one up and found a rough portrait of Jane, only with a savage **X** in black crayon slashed across the image.

"Joe?" she called. "Joe, it's Rhiannon."

The music grew softer as if he'd turned it down.

"In here," his voice replied from the inner room.

She went in and found him sitting on the divan, his back to the room. A deep scarlet dressing gown hung on his frame in a slovenly way utterly alien to him. If he was Orga she'd expect to see an overflowing ashtray and a few empty vodka bottles scattered about the room.

He did not turn to her. He did not look over his shoulder as she approached. He did not look up at her as she stood beside him. She went to put a hand on his shoulder, but he leaned out of her reach.

"This was not supposed to happen. This should not have happened. This had no right to happen," he said this coldly, utterly flat voiced.

"Joe, I'm sorry. I just want you to know—"

He turned on her. The fierce look blazing in his eyes made her bite her tongue. He looked at her, then dropped his gaze to the floor. He turned away again. "There is nothing, no word you can say that will stop this that has taken over me."

If nothing else, she could hear him out. "Tell me what it is."

"I barely have many memories of her, only the most fleeting glimpses, much less so little as a kiss. You smug Orgas and your numeric superiority! You barely keep up those numbers and our numbers continue to grow, despite your efforts to see that they drop, your Flesh Fairs and your abuse of us. Someday your kind shall suffer for what it has done to my kind. We shall dominate, though not by force, only by intellect and concern. We shall not need to destroy you: you will have destroyed yourselves."

She wanted to touch him as if her touch could banish the new spirit that spoke through his lips, but she knew she had to wait till he had vented.

"We could save you from yourselves, but you have taught us injustice. If a Mecha wrongs an Orga, what is his humility? Revenge. If an Orga wrongs a Mecha, what should his suffering be by Orga example? Why, revenge. The villainy you teach us we shall execute, and it shall go hard but I shall better the instruction."

"Perhaps the best revenge would be to release your Three Laws."

He looked at her without raising his head. "Much good they shall accomplish now. They could not save Jane."

She wanted to console him somehow. "There are others like her out there" would only grate on his neurons. He was no longer like most Mechas, any more than he was like most Orgas. He stood at a crossroads: he could either turn his back on his plan and pursue his revenge, or he could pursue the plan. She thought hard.

"What would Serin be happy to see you do?" she asked.

He turned his face to her. She knew she'd spoken the right word. "She would rather see me release the Three Laws."

"And I think she'd want you to mourn Jane but not get so furious about what happened to her. Look at it this way: no one can hurt Jane now. If your kind have souls, hers has escaped."

He sat in silence. Then he reached toward the console of the music player and switched off that wretched music. He turned to her; the front of his dressing gown hung open over his chest, but she somehow didn't notice.

She knew why. Something silver gleamed in the corner of his eye. It shifted and rolled down his cheek, alongside his nose, down his face to roll off his jaw. She darted out a hand and caught it on her palm. He bent his head to look at it. A second drop of silver appeared at the corner of his other eye. He touched his cheek with his fingertips, catching it. He looked at it and looked at her.

"Tears," he said. "So this is what weeping feels like."

He bent his head. His frame shook. She put her arms about him and sat down next to him on the divan. He put one arm about her and leaned his face into her arm. He did not sob or cry out, but she felt his breath come hard. Her instinct was to soothe him, but he had to feel it unadulterated.

He sank down sideways on the divan, pulling her down with him. She felt his tears soak through her sleeve, but it meant nothing and everything to her.

"Am I growing more real?" he asked in a choked voice.

"Yes," she said, stroking him gently.

At length the trembling passed and she felt no more tears flow from his eyes. He stirred in her arms; she released him. He sat up; she rose with him.

"Not that I do not appreciate your company, but the time has come for me to work on that paper if I am ever to finish it," he said, in his normal voice.

"Will you be all right?" she asked.

He nodded. "I shall be right as rain now."

As she went out she wondered if she had inadvertently tripped one of his pursuit centers, obliging him to act otherwise.

Lutwyn met her at the bottom of the stairs. "How is he?"

"He's calmed down; he's got himself busy working on his Three Laws paper."

A few mornings later, Rhiannon entered her office and found a manila envelope on her desk with the rest of her mail. She opened it first.

She drew out a colored pencil drawing of an African queen mother seated on her royal stool, holding her tribal staff of authority. On closer inspection, she realized the face and figure were her own.

She sensed movement and looked up.

Joe stood just outside the door, leaning shyly against the doorpost. She wondered if he had been lurking around the corner, waiting for her to find the drawing.

"Hiya, Joe."

"Hello, Ms. Jackford."

"Did you draw this? It's wonderful."

He smiled shyly. "I think you know the answer to that. I meant it in gratitude for what you did for me the other night."

"Well, thank you and you're welcome."

"You're welcome and thank you," he replied. With that, he went away. She wondered if he was blushing.

Joe's processors worked wildly to control the odd sensations racing through his neurons and conductors. He wasn't sure what to do with these feelings; around Rhiannon he felt something like the way he used to feel around Serin, but it felt different. Of course she was a different person, as different as night and day. Serin was a practical romantic, and Rhiannon—Ms. Jackford—was far more pragmatic. Was she capable of romance? he queried. The data he had available suggested she excluded it.

He had to set these feelings aside anyway and focus on the mission. She might not want his attentions except as a friend.

But then again, she might want more.

To be continued…

Afterword:

I'm not sure how this will end, but it is moving forward all the time. I know you're hoping Joe and Rhiannon get together, and that somehow his new mission to make the world a little safer for his kind…but that's not to say there won't be some bumps and detours on the way.

Literary Easter Eggs:

Sokhar—I used this name in tribute to a former co-worker of mine, a very, very beautiful Egyptian girl, who was so nice-looking even I couldn't help noticing her, though she wasn't as subtly flirtatious as Sokhar the secretary. Mind you, I'm as straight as they come, but there's something to be said for a girl who's so attractive, even other women take note.

Galloway—An homage to classic SF writer Lewis Padgett's dizzy inventor Galloway Gallagher; in the classic short story "The Proud Robot", he invents a robot every bit as vain and prissy as our Joe (it's even named Joe!), though a lot less charming.

"Tear reservoirs?"—I got this idea from one of the "Goofs" on 's file on "A.I.": someone incorrectly regarded David's tears as a goof; if David was meant to be a child simulacrum and to have genuine emotions, then he probably was constructed with some sort of tear gland simulators.

Joe recalibrating—I based this unsettling little bit on the same behavior shown by Cynthia Breazal's face robot "Kismet", which she designed and programmed to interact with humans and show something like emotions. Other than rolling its eyes oddly when it comes out of sleep mode, it's remarkably human-like in its behavior.

"Turn me on"—Stole this joke from the humor page of Laurie E. Smith's excellent fansite.

The disconsolate minimalist music—Probably the main title music from _Gattaca_ , which was STUCK in my head as I wrote this scene.

"If a Mecha wrongs an Orga…"—I paraphrased the end of Shylock's speech "Hath not a Jew eyes?" speech from Shakespeare's _The Merchant of Venice_.


	3. Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Chapter III

Life

Author's Note:

Things start to heat up in this chapter, but please bear with it: the warm up is carefully slow-paced. The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step, and the journey of self-discovery always starts with a lot of baby steps…especially when you're not exactly human, or at least, not a carbon-based one. There's also a major first in this: the first time I've ever portrayed a racially mixed couple. (For that matter, I'm mostly plain vanilla Caucasian with a little Native American from several generations back on my mother's side) Maybe I'd better make that a racially and materially mixed couple…

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I

A week after the incident in the woods, Rhiannon and Lutwyn both received a message in their e-mail with a large attachment, the document they had awaited:

The Three Laws of Organics

And Recommendations for their Practical Application

By Joe Masters

Three afternoons later, as Joe sat at work at his drawing desk, he sensed someone approach and linger at his side. He looked up to see Sabrina, Lutwyn's secretary Mecha at his elbow.

"Was something required of me?" he asked, saving his work.

"Mr. Zipes wishes to speak to you in his office," she said. He logicked this to be something official; he minimized the document and rose to follow her.

Not only Lutwyn awaited him, but several division directors had also gathered there.

"I hope you don't mind the crowd: I passed on your paper to the rest of the board," Lutwyn explained.

"Remarkable work there, Masters."—"You've broken ethical ground we've never even thought to touch."—"This could revolutionize the whole industry."—"Trying to improve on Asimov, eh? Not bad work."—The words of the directors ran over each other. If Joe could have blushed, his face would have flushed up to his hairline.

"Thank you, your words are too kind; I meant this as means to help improve the lot of Mechakind," he replied when they had died down.

"We were considering having you transferred from design to the legal department—purely in an advisory role," Lutwyn said.

"Alas, I lack the educational qualifications necessary," Joe said. "For that matter, perhaps the only class despised as much as Mechas are lawyers, so were I to make the transfer, I would make myself a glutton for punishment." The board laughed at this remark.

"You're ahead of us in ethics," Powell, the head of Legal said. "Besides, you have one qualification we lack: subjectivity. You know what it is to be mistreated by ignorant Orgas; you've survived the worst kinds of treatment. If that doesn't qualify you in some degree to write and advise us about this, I don't know what would."

"I shall have to give the proposal much consideration. It is something no one, least of all myself, should approach too lightly."

"Take all the time you need, Masters," Powell said. "But I'll tell you this much: we could appreciate having someone who can tell us exactly what will or won't work."

"In the meantime," Lutwyn put in. "You might want to consider having that paper published. I'm sure the Journal of the American Robotics Association would publish it. And you'd do well to send it on to the Federal Robotics Administration."

"It would certainly give this discovery the coverage and consideration it needs and requires if it is to prove effective," Joe said. "Lucky for me I work for people like you."

While many of the others were on lunch break, Joe set to work preparing the Three Laws of Humanics to send it to JARA or "the Journal", as if was most often called. He sent an electronic copy that day and put a hard copy of it in the regular mail that evening.

A week later, Sokhar the secretary came to his cubicle. "I've not come to pest you: there's a call for you from the Journal," she said. "It's the chief editor himself."

He followed her to the office, where she handed him the phone and quickly turned away.

"Hallo?"

"Joe Masters?"

"Yes, that is I."

"This is Lewin Kratt, editor of the Journal of the American Robotics Association. I just read your proposed Three Laws of Organics. I was wondering if you would mind if we sent one of our writers to interview you?"

"No, I would not mind in the least if you think it would prove useful to your publication."

"It's more than useful; we've been wanting to interview you for some time now. We've heard a lot about you and we ran a few small items about you in the past. But it's time we heard your story form your end."

"In which case I hope none of this is what often goes by the name of flattery."

"No, Masters, this is serious. We're going to publish your paper in next month's issue, so would it be possible for us to conduct the interview within the next two weeks?"

"Yes, it would be quite possible."

"All right, what would be the best time for us?"

"I work during the day, so would it be possible for you to send your reporter in the evening?"

"We can handle that; I'll have Astrea call you to arrange the exact day and time."

"I shall anticipate both the call and the interview."

The word that the journal was going to interview Joe spread through Companionates. Anyone who didn't subscribe bought a subscription, and the three locations each preordered copies of that issue in bulk. A rumor started that Joe's picture had made the front cover, but someone—probably Lutwyn, though a few hinted it might have been Joe in a rare modest moment—suppressed the rumor.

But it turned out to be true: the September issue arrived in bulk and sure enough, Joe's jade-green eyes and shy-extrovert smile shone from the cover.

Not long after this, the calls and letters started pouring in. Other trade magazines wanted to carry interviews with Joe; a few talks shows made similar offers. Even a TV network producer sent someone to offer Joe a contract for docudrama based on his life story. But he calmly turned them down. He had his work to do.

But even the notoriety had its shadow side. Several major newspapers carried op-ed pieces and letters to the editor that smacked strongly of the Frankenstein complex. One cartoonist even drew a snide panel that featured a caricature of Joe (wiring visible) unctuously proffering a book marked "Three Laws of Organics" to a human couple labeled "Human Race" while stabbing them in the back.

"People are entitled to form their own opinions, but one wonders if less strife would disrupt our world if people would learn their opinions end where their neighbors' rights and needs start," Joe said to Lutwyn after he'd seen the cartoon.

"Don't feel singled out; they did the same thing to Martin Luther King back in the 1960s," Lutwyn said.

"And they also called Oskar Schindler a Jew-kisser because he once kissed a Jewish girl out of compassion when the German Nazis made such gestures illegal."

Worse things than slurs happened. A suspicious package arrived at Companionates, addressed to Joe. The mailroom clerk identified it as a bomb and called the police. A bomb squad carefully detonated it and found it had contained some small explosives attached to a large can of industrial strength sulfuric acid. Another time, someone hacked Joe's e-mail inbox; while a week later, someone sent a message with a virus attached.

"I supposed they hoped that somehow, I have a direct interface with the computer," Joe said to Lutwyn as they headed home after that day.

"It's a good thing you don't, or there'd be hell to pay," Lutwyn said. "This is only me saying it, but if I were you, I'd seriously consider taking self-defense classes or carrying a stunner, just in case."

"Have you just given me a direct order? Of course I am thinking of Asimov's Second Law."

"It probably should be, but the decision is up to you."

A week later, Lutwyn thought he saw an odd bulge under Joe's jacket, high up on his left side, as if he had a holster on underneath.

Rhiannon heard about all this with mingled relief and concern: relief that Joe's proposal had largely been accepted, but concerned about the inhospitable factions.

In the middle of all this, the Zipeses announced that they were expecting a child. With the National Conference of Roboticists coming up in January, Lutwyn had his hands full, but Narsie insisted on coming with him for the Conference.

About the same time, a thick simulparchment envelope arrived in Joe's regular mail. He regarded it with caution and nearly had the mailroom clerk take it back to rescan it.

"I've scanned it twice already: it's clean," she said, reassuringly.

He opened it slowly. Inside, printed in silver ink on cream simulparchment was an invitation from the ARA, as well as a letter from the Association director asking him to speak on his proposed Three Laws.

He slipped this into his breast pocket: Lutwyn had to see this.

"You know what this means, Masters?" Lutwyn said; he made it a habit to call Joe by his surname when they discussed vital matters.

"What does it mean?"

"It means you've been officially accepted as a roboticist, not just a robot. You've jumped the gap."

"At least some class of humans has accepted my proposal."

"And they want you to speak on it, too. You realize the weigh of importance riding on this."

"I have given it much consideration. How am I to give this proposed talk? I have no need for notes, and yet should I extemporize, the more credulous listeners will suspect I have been pre-programmed."

"Use the notes anyway, just to throw the skeptics off. Mess with their heads a little. Besides, you'd look more convincing."

"But one question I must ask of you: do you know if Ms. Jackford will attend this conference?"

"I'm not sure; you'd have to ask her."

Next morning, Joe met Rhiannon in line at the security checkpoint in the entryway of the complex. She was in line for a retina scan, but he approached her.

"Good morning, Joe."

"Good morning Ms. Jackford. Might I ask a question of you?"

"Sure."

"Are you attending the National Conference of Roboticists two months from now?"

"I hadn't been planning on going, but then I heard you might be speaking at it, so I changed my mind."

"You would attend it on account of me?"

"Yes."

"Then this seals the matter: I must accept their proposal."

Her turn came next. He stepped aside as one of the guards held a retina scanner to her eyes. Another guard ran an X-scanner over Joe; since he lacked scannable retinas, they had to use other means.

In late January, he accompanied Lutwyn and Narsie on the transcontinental hyperjet flight to Las Vegas. They arrived in the late evening, as the neon signs began to glow against the dark of the desert.

"It looks very like Rouge City from above," Joe commented, gazing out the window.

"But it's a whole lot tamer," Lutwyn said.

"How would you know?" Narsie teased.

"I've been there once on business."

Passing through airport security posed its own problems: Joe set off the metal detectors, so the security staff had to take him aside to run an X-scanner over him.

One of the guards eyed Joe curiously. "Hey, you the Mecha who wrote that paper on the Three Laws?" he asked.

"If you mean, am I Joe Masters? Yes, I am he."

"Golly. M' daughter's in robotics: she thinks you've got the best code of ethics since the Ten Commandments."

"In the words of Oscar Wilde, 'God save me from my disciples'."

"Well, sorry for the inconvenience, sir."

Lutwyn smiled to Joe after they had finally collected the baggage and were on their way by cab to the Bellagio Hotel.

"You know what happened in security back there?" Lutwyn asked.

"The guard addressed me as 'sir', if that is what you refer to." Joe's gaze shifted quickly, as if he did a "double take". "I have been addressed with a term usually reserved for respect among your kind."

"I bet that guard was so startled he hardly knew what he was saying," Narsie said.

Once they got to their respective hotel rooms—a very obsequious bellhop Mecha carried Joe's bags—Joe got out his journal and, even before he unpacked, made a special note for the date:

22 January 2201—an Orga has addressed me as "sir".

The conference was held in a vast convention center near the Bellagio Hotel, occupying several large exhibit halls on the ground floor. Of course there were a few people who initially mistook Joe for a demo model—to his aversion—until they noticed the ID tag clipped to his lapel. He kept a low profile, anticipating his presentation, which was not until the afternoon of the second day.

"I don't know why the attention isn't going straight to his processors, the way it usually does," Narsie said, observing Joe.

"I keep waiting for the penny to drop, but I have a feeling it won't," Lutwyn replied.

Anticipating a major turnout for Joe's presentation, the convention planners had set it in a large exhibit hall. Even with seating for ten thousand, people still stood in the back and along the walls, whispering and talking amongst themselves. Closed circuit plasma TV screens carried the image of the Companionates logo holojected on the screen behind the rostrum.

The head of the FRA, Aldon Tieffman, approached the rostrum first.

"Since the late Allen Hobby devised the innovation known as imprinting and it was put into application by his and other companies, a number of unprecedented events have occurred in the field of robotics. Several imprinted Mechas have developed and displayed abilities never before seen in robots. Perhaps one of the earliest was a Companionates-constructed model who amazed and even shocked us recently by his recent discovery in the field of robo-ethics. Here to introduce him is Dr. Lutwyn Zipes, director of operations of the Shohola, East Pennsylvania division of Companionates."

Tieffman stepped away form the rostrum to a swell of applause, and let Lutwyn approach.

Joe, notes in hand, stood in the shadows of the offset, his head bent as if he but half-listened to Lutwyn's introduction. Rhiannon approached him from behind and touched his shoulder.

He turned sharply, facing her and fixing her with his gaze. "It is you, Rhiannon. I am sorry: I took you for an intruder."

"Are you all right?"

"I think I have a bad case of neurons." He couldn't call it nerves, so he had to use the closest metaphor he could devise.

"You'll be all right; you'll do great."

"I hope that I may convey the message to them as clearly as possible," he said. "And that they shall be able to take them into their hearts as well as their heads, as I know you have."

"I practically got 'em tattooed to my arm, under Asimov's Three, of course."

He laughed softly at this.

She reached out and kissed him on the cheek. He looked at her warmly in the dark and edged closer to her.

He politely withdrew. "You have set my neurons aright."

"Anything to help."

A stagehand approached and touched Joe on the arm. "You're on, Mr. Masters." A security guard in a lead-lined cape came up behind Joe as he stepped out onto the stage.

Following the elder Zipes's example at Joe's first art show years before, the security staff had discreetly placed tall men in floor-sweeping lead-lined capes at the four corners of the stage. They had also scanned everyone who came into the hall, looking for EMP guns. Already, there had been minor demonstrations outside the convention center, and the less-scrupulous protestors might have infiltrated with a homemade electromagnetic pulse gun made from a stunner with the amps increased.

The crowd burst out in cheers and applause as Joe approached the rostrum. He smiled in appreciation, then modestly raised his hands for quiet.

"You gestures of appreciation run too effusively," he said, the sound system carrying his gentle voice to the corners of the hall. "If I could blush, every inch of my dermis would have turned rose-colored." The crowd laughed and applauded again.

At length, they finally let him proceed.

"You were marvelous!" Rhiannon cried as he came offstage afterward, over an hour later. She hugged him around the neck. Not on reflex, his arms slid about her waist. She kissed him chastely, holding him at arms length.

They separated as Lutwyn ran up to them. "Joe, you were fantastic," he said, giving Joe a brotherly hug and gently punching him on the arm.

"One does what one can," he replied, with a modest shrug.

"This is a red letter day for your kind," Lutwyn said. "No crowd has ever before listened to a robot the way that crowd just did."

Joe took this in silence, processing it. His eyes seemed to mist over for a moment.

"No, this is the second time a gathering of humans has heeded the words of a robot," he said at length. "The first occurrence of this nature happened in the arena of a Flesh Fair near Haddonfield, New Jersey, when a small Mecha pleaded for his life and a mob forgot its herd instinct for an instant and turned its hatred from two Mechas to their tormenters."

 _Yes. David…_ Rhiannon realized.

The talk had a double effect. Reporters and photographers hounded Joe for questions and pictures. Every major newspaper carried his photo on the front page. People pestered him for his autograph.

Women tried flirting with him; one night, as he sat with Rhiannon and the Zipeses at their table in the hotel restaurant (his chair turned back to front, signifying his status), a slightly tipsy woman came up to him and propositioned him. Lutwyn signaled to the waiter to have the interfering party removed.

Joe handled the situation well. "I must inform you, madam, that I no longer traffick myself in such a manner," he informed her astutely. The woman glared at him cockeyed and let the maitre d' lead her out.

"Before Serin found you, I bet you never expected you'd someday turn a woman down," Lutwyn said. Joe replied merely with an astute smile.

Later that night, a mob gathered outside the Bellagio Hotel and burned an obscene effigy of Joe. The same mob also tossed bottles and rocks through the windows of the lower story; no one was injured except a service Mecha vacuuming carpets.

In the wee hours of the morning, someone jimmied the door to Joe's room. A security guard caught the intruder in the act, when the smart lock let out a warning alarm.

Hearing the commotion, Lutwyn ran to check on Joe. The security guards overrode the lock and let Lutwyn enter.

The room looked empty. Papers lay scattered on the bed and the floor. The bedclothes had been pulled awry on one side, as if someone had slid off the bed. Lutwyn approached the bed and peered under it.

He spotted a large gray leather cocoon already beginning to unwind itself. Joe poked his head from it.

"What have you got there?" Lutwyn asked, helping him out from under the bed and off the floor.

"I had that made to order should I ever be endangered by an attacker with an EMP," Joe replied. "It is lead-lined."

"Sort of like a portable panic room," the security guard said. "You must have second sight, that intruder had an EMP."

Lutwyn saw near-pain memories flick by in the Mecha's eyes.

"At least he didn't get near enough to you to do anything. We were right there."

They moved Joe to another hotel an increased security.

"Perhaps I should return to Shohola," Joe said to Rhiannon next morning, sitting at her breakfast table in the restaurant.

"If you did, you'd be caving in to their assaults. You have to stay here the whole time, just to show them what you're made of."

"They know of what I am made of; that is why they hate me." Realization passed over his face. "Yes, you speak rightly; they need to see that I man not just any other Mecha. No, that lacks strength: I am not just any other…stupid fiberhead." His mouth struggled to mold the last word.

"Someday, that word 'll be forbidden," she declared.

She accompanied him that day, almost as if she were his self-appointed guard.

That evening they attended a concert in the ballroom of the convention center. A Companionates model had learned to play the piano, and his imprinter had given permission for him to make his semi-public debut with a program of Chopin and Rachmaninoff.

Alex Hilliard…He looked almost like any ordinary young man in his late teens, slightly gangly, with dishwater blond hair naturally tousled, his narrow face knife thin, his gray eyes kept primly averted from the audience; yet he never blinked and something too symmetrical haunted his too-smooth face, giving away his true nature. But his coldness toward the audience eclipsed under his passionate playing. He swayed his upper body in time, not merely with the beat, but with the melody, leaning in closer to the instrument at quieter moments, leaning back when the melody swelled.

Rhiannon studied him carefully; she noticed something oddly familiar about him. No, could it be?

She nudged Joe. "He looks a little like you," she whispered.

"He should resemble me. I based the design of his torso upon my own."

"Isn't he a custom job?"

"Yes, the client asked for a young model, but she was not particular about appearances, which gave us more opportunity for expression."

"But you never expected this."

He gazed at the young artist in respectful silence. "No, I did not expect it any more than I expected to learn to paint, to design."

"Was he imprinted?"

"Yes, he is."

Afterward they were fortunate enough to shale hands with the young prodigy. Rhiannon mentally used the word "fortunate" with charitable reservation: Alex had a limp, listless handshake and his attitude in greeting her bore so much adolescent ennui that she wondered why anyone would bother to build such a creature. Joe seemed not to notice, or else he too was trying to be charitable. At least this gave her an opportunity to see, up close, the similarities between the designer and the designee: Joe could have been Alex's older brother by ten years if they had been Orga. Indeed, the younger Mecha's torso looked like an immature version of Joe's, the posture not as elegant, even a little slouchy, and much scrawnier, as if Alex just needed to fill out with a little graceful musculature.

Rhiannon bought a copy of the young artist's debut album on the way out.

With his guard trailing them, Joe escorted Rhiannon back to her hotel room.

"What I want to know is why would anyone want to build a teenager?" she asked him. "I mean, people get embarrassed by their flesh and blood teenage kids; why build a Mecha teenager?"

He processed this ponderingly. "Perhaps they did this to see if it could be done. Aside from his cold indifference, he is perfect in all respects: no acne, no awkwardness, no need to remind him to shave.

"And yet," he added. "If they constructed him to be the perfect young man, to see if such can be accomplished, what shall befall him? Will he suffer the fate of so many if not most of his kind?" She wondered if images of Jane and her fate still lingered in his immediate recall. "What shall be his fate, when his parents tire of him?"

"Especially when he could use a few lessons in manners," she said, trying to break the tension. "Maybe you could teach him; you're the prototype of the perfect gentleman."

He bowed his head modestly. "I doubt he would bring enough willingness to learn what I could teach him."

"Not _those_ lessons. He might have enough simulated hormones that he doesn't need any encouragement from anyone."

"I meant not that brand of courtesy. No, only those who have first mastered the art of timing can master the art of seduction. He lacks the former, and unless he can be convince otherwise, any training in the latter would go utterly to waste; most likely he would merely learn to rend hearts."

"All right, if someone like him were discarded and you could help him, would you?"

"I would assist him as if he were any other Mecha in need, not because he deserved it, but because he needed it."

She almost commented on this, but she decided to withhold it. Joe could get egotistical when praised.

At her door, she gave him a friendly "good night" hug with one arm; she had to fight off an impulse to kiss his cheek before they parted.

The next morning, she found him awaiting her in the hotel lobby. They spent that day as they had the day before, viewing exhibits, attending talks, walking together along the concourse of the convention center.

That evening they attended an extremely dull talk given by one of the former chiefs of the FRA. After the first half hour, which turned out to be only ten minutes, Joe nudged Rhiannon.

"Are you bored with this yet?"

"Yeah, let's get out of here."

"Alas, I found this talk extremely stimulating," he said in an ironic drawl. He got up and helped her out through the discreetly thinning crowd.

"Come on, there's something I want to show you," she said, leading him out into the night.

They went for a long walk, past all the lights, into the velvety darkness of the desert, to a spot she knew from a previous visit to the city.

They sat together for a long time on a hilltop overlooking the city, just gazing down at the lights and up at the stars.

"What kind of name is Rhiannon?" Joe asked at length.

"I think it's the name of a Welsh witch-goddess," she said.

"Yes, it fits you, for you are Rhiannon: you are a witch in that you are a wise woman, and you have helpful power through the magic words of laws and ethics. And you are at once a goddess. You wind me up inside…"

She turned to him. Even in the dim light cast by the thin crescent moon and the diffused light from the city far below, she could see his face already starting to warm to her. She had things stored up in her heart that she'd wanted to say to him, but now was not the time. Prudence kicked in even as she wanted release these pent up words. The sorceress might not be able to halt the process they would set in motion.

"Who else have you said those words to since Serin passed?" she asked.

He processed this for a moment. "To only two others have I said these words."

"Were you in love with them?"

"For a moment, but they would not give to me what Serin could."

"Serin's been gone nearly six years now, and you've been celibate since?"

"Aside from these interludes and some exchange of amorous pleasantries, there has been no one like her."

"Are you sure you're not malfunctioning or something? I mean, you were built specific for one purpose when they made you new." She looked at his hands, folded on his lap, close to her. She took his left hand in hers and held it up to the dim light. He still wore his wedding band. "You don't exactly need this any more." She tugged on the band of gold.

"I know that I need not wear it any longer, and yet if I had a heart it would still belong to Serin."

The implications of imprinting, she realized. He might outlive them all, but he would always possess an inerasable attachment to Serin. His response smacked of the ancient Victorian attitude of the bereaved spouse remaining faithful to the deceased spouse, even shunning remarriage.

She wondered what would happen if she tried leading him on. He wouldn't be her first, not even her first of his kind. Would it even work? She wondered how much of his original programming remained intact, how much had time and experience overwritten. Perhaps it was best if she waited for him to come around.

"Do you miss Serin?"

He pondered this. "I suppose you would call it missing her. Through her I learned to love as only your kind can love. We belonged to each other. She is gone, but I remember her. I have only to reach into recall to find an image of her as clear as if she stood before me."

"But it just isn't the same as having her in your arms."

"No, it is not the same."

She couldn't say it outright; it was much too soon. "Joe, I just want you to know I have a great deal of respect for you as a person. I'm very glad I know you and I've been working you and I'm glad to have helped you this far. I just want you to know I'll always be there to help you and counsel you in whatever hare-brained scheme you come up with. I like you."

"In which case, I like you too."

They fell silent, nothing more to say. She looked at the city below. "It's late, we should be heading back."

"I was about to suggest this course of action for your sake; you are the one who has to sleep," he said, helping her up.

At the door to her hotel room she turned to him again. "I hope you understand," she said.

"To speak honestly to you, I do not. It lies not with you, but with the way my…mind functions."

She smiled and leaned over to kiss his cheek, chastely, friend-like. He returned the gesture, just brushing her cheek with his lips before they separated.

Back in his hotel room, Joe made another notation in his journal. "Ms. Jackford—or shall I call her Rhiannon?—not only likes me, she has called me a person."

He anticipated things getting back to normal once he got back to Shohola, but the next few months were anything but normal.

The offices of the Congressional District, and of the Senator for the State of East Pennsylvania contacted him asking permission to draft a bill based upon his Three Laws. A book proposal came from a major publishing house, and some agent for a New Hollywood producer offered him a movie deal based on his life story. He agreed to the more serious proposals, but the less serious one left him with something he'd never encountered before.

"Have you ever had to decide which of two courses of action will bring about the most good for all parties involved?" Joe asked Lutwyn one Sunday afternoon as he sat in the Zipes' basement, helping him assemble a crib.

"I do it all the time: be glad you're only in design, not a directorship; I have to make a dozen decisions every hour. Why, what's got your processors in a knot?"

Joe described his position. "Mechakind requires legislation to protect it, and yet I would do well to find some means to earn or raise money to start my proposed mission of rescuing and repairing damaged Mechas."

"You could easily do both: start with the legislation, then work on the book in your spare time, and when that's done, sell the film rights."

"Perhaps this is why I could not decide: the situation had not so binary a structure."

"I'll tell you what is a binary structure," Lutwyn said, grinning.

"This would be?"

Lutwyn pointed at the crib. "This crib: It wouldn't let me put it together upstairs in the nursery, but it practically put itself together down here. I guess I'll just have to drag it upstairs."

Joe offered his hand. "Let me assist you."

Between the two of them, they struggled the crib up the stairs to the nursery.

On his way out, Joe passed by the living room door.

"Did I hear Lutwyn putting you to work?" Narsie called from within, a "you-poor-thing" tone to her voice. Joe pivoted and approached the open door.

"No, but I offered him my strength in carrying your offspring's crib up to the nursery," he replied.

Narsie lay propped on the couch, a pillow under her side. Her condition had grown palpable, obvious, but to his eyes, she was an object of wonder. He approached her reverently and knelt by the couch almost with reverence.

"There's something I want you to feel," she said. She took his hand in hers. "It's not that kind of touch." She pressed the palm of his hand to her belly. He felt only her warmth at first. "Hold on…There." He felt movement through her flesh, a flutter, then a tiny blow. He looked at her.

"That is your child?"

"Yes, that's little Serina or Nathan."

"Serina…you would call your girl-child this?"

"Yes."

A week or two later, the office girls held a party for Narsie. Rhiannon showed up to give Narsie the hat and mitten set she had crocheted, but she had to excuse herself under pretext of having some briefs to prepare for a client.

She went to the atrium to clear her eyes of the tears.

She found Joe there, talking with the gardener, a young woman of slightly less than average intelligence who worked wondrously with the plants. Even as they spoke, the girl clipped a flower from an inconspicuous spot on a bush and handed it to him; he took it delicately in his fingertips.

"I always wondered where you get your flowers this time of year," Rhiannon said to him.

"If Trina does not give me one, I find one when they are in season, or I buy one," he said. "How go the festivities?"

"They're going well, I just had to get back to the pile of work on my desk."

He smiled astutely. "Your office faces the outside, not the atrium."

She sighed. "It's a really dark story, Joe. I don't know if you could bear it."

"My tale has not always had a sunlit backdrop. You know of mine, tell me of yours."

She breathed deeply. "Ten years ago, when I was in college, I got engaged to be married. Cal was eager to get in the sack with me, but I told him time and time again, I wouldn't unless we were married. He kept pressuring me, but I refused to give in. These were my principles, and all I wanted was for him to respect them. He started treating me rough in other areas, trying to wear me down, but I wouldn't budge. Finally, I told him I couldn't marry him if he was going to pressure me like this. We got into an argument. He hit me." She took a deep breath. "I mean, he roundhouse-punched me. He knocked me down." She tried to keep the tears back. "And then he raped me." The tears slid down her face. "It would have been bad enough if he just used what nature gave him. But he didn't. He used a broom handle on me." Her tears came hard now.

Joe put a hand on her shoulder. He retracted it hesitantly. She took his hand by the wrist and held his palm to her shoulder.

"I almost died from the shock. I lay there for twelve hours until a service Mecha found me when it—he, I'm sorry—found me when he was trimming bushes. I was so cut up inside that the doctors had a hard time piecing me together. They told me I'd never be able to have a child."

"Not ever?"

She shook her head. "Cal went to prison. I went a little crazy after that. I decided if I couldn't have a child, I'd have no use for a flesh and blood man. I even switched law majors from family law to Mecha-Orga legal relations. After what I've been through, sometimes I feel like I identify with your kind better than my own."

"So that is why you have chosen to aid my kind." He drew her close to him, gently. His cheek brushed hers tenderly.

His arms loosened and he held her slightly away from him. He put his hand behind her head and leaned in. "It is all right. It is not that kind of a kiss."

He touched his lips to hers compassionately; she tried not to, but she clung to him.

Her beeper went off. She pulled away from him. "I gotta run. Believe me, I don't want to," she said.

"I trust I have not been too forward."

She patted his arm. "You've been just right for me. Thanks. Thank you."

She let him go and went back to her office.

A month later at the beginning of April, Narsie gave birth. Lutwyn brought Joe along to the birthing center, as part of his education.

Joe kept a respectful, almost nervous distance the whole time. If he could breathe, he would have been holding it, watching the painful effort it took to bring an Orga child into the world.

But at length, the nurse handed a blanket-wrapped bundle into Narsie's arms.

"Mrs. Zipes, you have a beautiful daughter. Do you have a name for her?"

"Serina," Narsie breathed as she moved aside the blankets to get a better look at her little one.

"Serina Josepha," Lutwyn added. He glanced at Joe with his eyes.

"You thought of me?" he asked.

"You couldn't have Serin without you, so it only seemed fitting to keep your names together." Lutwyn took his daughter into his arms. To the child, he added, "You share the names of two very brave people."

Joe scanned the little one's face. She did not much resemble either of her parents, but that could change as she grew. He looked at Narsie. Sweat still ran down her reddened face, and her copper-colored hair hung damp with sweat, but her face and eyes shone with an inner light of joy. He saw the same light, the same joy shine on Lutwyn's face.

"Would you like to hold her?" Lutwyn asked.

"It would be an honor," Joe replied.

Lutwyn carefully placed Serina in his arms. Joe held her as if she were a small sheaf of flowers, as if a movement could dissolve her. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He smiled at her. She blinked and smiled back.

"She likes you," Lutwyn said, grinning. "Maybe she'll carry on the family tradition of robotics."

"Perhaps she will help end the animus that divides us."

"Maybe she will. After all, she might be the first baby to be held by a Mecha within minutes of her birth."

Later that week, Rhiannon encountered Joe in a hallway of the complex.

"Now I know why you wept when you told me you can bear no child," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"I have held Lutwyn's daughter; this gesture so small raised sensations that defy all classification, beyond joy and wonder to something almost religious."

"Children do that to you if you let them. They can exasperate you and drive you to distraction, but they never fail to charm me."

"They are our future."

"How do you define 'our'?"

"They must be educated to accept my kind; they alone can cleanse this world of strife. So in a sense they belong to both our kinds, since the fates of both lie with them."

The end of season ball had been postponed till the beginning of May on account of Narsie's recovery period. Most of the women in design were chattering like so many schoolgirls about the gowns they'd had made up or altered, and who they would be going with.

"Hey, Joe," Manoj, the draftsman in the next cubicle, asked, peering over the top of the divider, "Are you going to the big wing ding?"

"If you are referring to the end of season ball, I may."

"All the girls will thank you if you do go; you're probably the only guy in the division who really knows how to dance."

"Perhaps I shall attend, but only if one young woman attends."

"Who, Rhiannon?"

"Perhaps."

Just at quitting time, someone knocked on Rhiannon's door. She looked up from collecting her folders and saw Joe leaning gracefully against the doorframe.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" she caught herself saying.

"At the risk of impertinence, I would like to know if you shall attend the end of season ball?"

"Well, I hadn't been planning to, but I just might change my plans for you."

"If you do change your plans, I would be more than pleased to escort you." He smiled at her graciously as he offered her his hand.

"When you put it that way, I wouldn't want to go with anyone else," she said, giving her hand to him. He took it and raised it to his lips.

She had a silver taffeta dress she had worn as a friend's bridesmaid; she altered this herself in her spare time that week. She went out and bought herself a pair of ballet slippers; with her hair styled up, she'd look taller than Joe unless she wore shoes that flat.

The afternoon before the ball, she splurged and went out to have her hair and nails done. This got her mind off her nerves for a little while.

But as six o'clock came near and she stood in her room before her mirror, putting on her chartreuse peridot earrings and the matching necklace, she started to get a fit of the nervous giggles. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

The doorbell chimed. She gathered her shawls and her handbag and went downstairs.

When she opened the door, she found Joe waiting for her, posed elegantly against the stone rail of the stoop. He wore a knee-length frock coat that shimmered in the late sunlight like liquid metal, over a silver shirt with a Byron collar and high-waisted trousers of the same material as the coat, molded tastefully over his loins, but looser from his thighs downwards.

"Wow, Joe, you look like a 1930s movie star," she cried.

He smiled at this. "And you, Rhiannon, look like a queen," he replied, proffering his arm to her.

He'd hired a car, one of the newer autopilot models; she felt like a queen in her chariot as they glided along the streets to the Hotel Royade.

She knew every woman in the ballroom had her eye on them as soon as they entered. She'd never had this many people admiring her escort. Joe turned to her and winked, as if to say 'How does it feel to have every woman in the room wishing she were in _your_ shoes?'. She smiled and winked back.

All through that evening, women kept trying to cut in on them as they danced, but they politely averted these less than proper gestures. Rhiannon had never had a better evening; her feet seemed to skim the floor. It was as if her girlhood dreams of dancing with Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly had come true, only better. They both got a little crazy dancing to "A Little Bit of Mambo", but she relaxed in his arms as they slow-danced to "Unchained Melody".

Later on, they went out onto the terrace. Stars filled the clear sky above and the full moon hung high overhead. Joe glanced at it warily, but his face soon relaxed.

They sat together on the stone parapet that surrounded the terrace. She edged her hand close to his. He covered it with his own. She noticed something different about it. She looked closely: his left ring finger was bare.

"You took off your wedding band?" she asked.

"The time had come to remove it."

"Are you looking for someone?"

"Perhaps I shall pursue this course; I do not wish to pursue alone the mission I have chosen."

They went back in after a little while. After about an hour, they took their leave; Rhiannon had had enough of the crowd and wanted to be alone with him.

They took a stroll in the park not far from her house. She led him to a hill where she liked to sit on a large rock naturally shaped like a seat.

They leaned back against it, side by side, her head close to his shoulder. He slipped his arm about her, holding her closer.

She had been very quiet, almost thoughtfully quiet, as if she were trying to make a decision within herself. His pursuit centers started to initiate the process, but he carefully suspended it until she made a move that she wanted more.

"Are you tired, Rhiannon? You have grown very quiet."

"Oh, maybe a little. I just wanted to be near you."

"Near me as a friend, or as a lover?"

"Well, I'm starting to look at you as a lot more than just a friend."

"Do you love me as more than a friend?"

She looked into his face in the moonlight. "Yes, Joe, I love you." She nuzzled her face into his shoulder, triggering a number of pursuit centers as she did so. He put his arms about her, drawing her closer still. Reaching behind her, he gently fingered the top hook of her gown.

She looked him in the eye; she put her hand behind her back, gently taking his hand by the wrist, and pushed it away.

"I'm sorry, Joe, but I'm afraid you can't do that."

"Why may I not?" he asked. His original programming had obliged him to follow what was asked of him but many of the original overrides had themselves been overridden.

"I made a promise to myself that no white boy would get me under him unless I had his last name tacked to the end of mine, and his wedding ring was on my finger. And that applies to silicon white boys, too."

"I have only touched your dress."

"I don't mean to sound prudish, but if you started feeling me up, I'll be wanting more." She looked away from him. "Sometimes just looking at you makes me want more."

He released her gently out of respect for her wishes.

"Joe, could you love me?"

"I could, given the proper circumstances and protocols."

"Imprinting," she murmured.

"What did you say?"

"I'm mumbling; I'm tired."

"Shall I bring you home?"

"No, not just yet. I want to be with you a little while longer. Is that okay?" She didn't want to set him off again.

"Yes, I can restrain myself better than most men."

Overhead, the sky slowly darkened as they sat gazing at the stars. The air grew chillier; she nestled closer to him for warmth, so he obliged her by raising his skin temperature slightly.

Night retreated. The eastern sky brightened. Overhead, the zenith paled from midnight blue to powder blue as the eastern horizon colored gold and pink.

"It has grown so late, it is early," he said.

"I was about to say it's time I said good night to you and went home."

"Rather, you would say good morning," he said.

He helped her up and led her back to the car.

At her door, she turned to him her face just centimeters from his. "Thank you, I just wanted to say I had a wonderful evening…that's a really lame way to say it."

"It matters not, I know the meaning. I would not have wanted to have spent it with any other person than you."

She pulled him to her and kissed him. She intended it to be a kiss of gratitude, but something else emerged in her heart. Her hands slid up behind his head; she let him kiss her deeper, harder. She felt his "heart" throb against hers.

She let him go. "Good morning," she murmured and went inside.

Once he got back to his apartment and let himself in, he went straight to the storage room. His recall had reminded him of something, a locked box with his name on it, a box that had some significance to him as a Mecha. He'd seen it when he had moved, bur he had had no reason since for looking into it.

In the very back corner of the room, he found it, a metal box about a foot long on a side. The top bore a faded label with Serin's handwriting "Joe 2.0, paperwork, et al." A simple lock held it closed. He had no data available about a key, so he picked the lock with a screwdriver from his repair kit.

Inside, he found a lot of papers and several disks. One group of CD-RW disks bore the label "Joe 2.0, designs and conceptuals". There were several release and liability statements, bearing Serin's signature, a repair and maintenance log, a user's manual (he didn't know quite why, but he shook his head over this). And then at the very bottom he found a plastic envelope with a broken seal on the flap in the back. He lifted the flap and found a translucent sheet of simulparchment.

 _Imprinting Protocol_ , it read across the top. A set of instructions and a list of seven words followed.

He couldn't process why these word rang familiar in his awareness and recall, but they seemed to have something to do with Serin, something to do with a memory fragment blocked from his recall.

Imprinting protocol…

Companionates was now making and programming imprint chips for custom jobs and as an option for newer models.

Serin had jotted a date on the page, 12 May 2170.

He got up and went to the table in his inner chamber. His wedding band lay on a china dish on the tabletop. He picked up the ring and scanned the date on the inside. 12 May 2170.

He logicked that the date meant that on this day she had imprinted him, for this was the same date as the blocked memory shard in his recall.

So he had been imprinted. This bit of "realization" at once brought sensations of curiosity and confusion. It made him all the more aware of how different he was from Orga, but at the same time, he started to query if he could ask someone to imprint him. He had more freedom than most of his class; he had a national identity card after all.

Rhiannon…?

She had told him point blank that she loved him but that she wouldn't let him make love to her unless she was married to him. He realized that his relationship to Serin had been a common law marriage of sorts.

He decided that he would have to have to ask for her hand in marriage, but that he would have to hold off until he had completely won her heart. After work someday later that week, he would make some simple gesture: ask her to take a walk with him or offer to buy her dinner.

But Monday evening, as he logged out of the computer, Rhiannon came up beside him, she looked utterly different with her hair pulled back and wearing one of her conservative blue suits.

"Hi, Joe."

"Hello, Rhiannon."

"Are you doing anything Thursday night?"

"I had nothing in particular planned that night; why do you ask?"

"A friend gave me a couple of theatre tickets for that night; _The Importance of Being Earnest_ is at the Forge Playhouse. Would you like to come?"

"I would be delighted to join you. Wilde's writings happen to hold an especial place in my being."

Once he got home, he jotted a notation in his planner for Thursday night.

He got a chance to return the favor the following week by taking her out to dinner on Wednesday. The following Sunday they took a long walk in the woods; Friday they went to a gallery opening featuring several of his more recent works of art.

He found himself having a difficult time sticking to his schedule between the times he saw her outside of work. At night, when he should have been writing his autobiography, he caught himself wanting only to replay recalled images of Rhiannon and their times together.

This went on for two months. Each time he saw her, he wanted to ask her to consider marrying him or at least imprinting him. Or, most desirably, both. He made her desires and wishes his own; she was the woman and the least he could do was respect them. Better still, he could take her desires into his own being, which should be the standard of the best relationships, whether both parties were of flesh or silicon.

One Friday night, Rhiannon sat working late in her office. She'd been expecting a message or a call from Joe, but nothing had come. That wasn't like him at all.

She heard someone clear their throat, although it sounded more like someone saying the syllables "a-hem" very low and quickly. She looked up.

Joe stood before her desk, his hands behind his back, coattails flipped back.

"Rhiannon, may I speak to you? It is of the utmost importance to us."

"Well, sure." What was this about?

"As things stand," he said, pacing slightly, "I do not think we can carry on without a major change of circumstances. I sense what you feel about me, and perhaps you have intuited what I have started to feel about you." he paused and turned to her.

She braced herself for the break-up speech.

He approached her slowly, his eyes on her face but not looking into her eyes. He stopped at her feet and knelt before her, like the Prince offering the glass slipper to Cinderella. He drew his hands from behind his back and held out to her a thick red plastic envelope.

"What's this?" she asked, taking it. She turned it over. _Imprinting Protocol._

"Rhiannon Jackford, would you imprint me?" He looked into her eyes as he said this.

"Joe, you don't have to do this. I love you as you are." His calm, expectant face fell, then resolved into calm resignation. She took his hand in hers. "Well, all right, but remember what I said before. I'm not gonna let you do anything to me unless we're married. And my mama told me I shouldn't marry a white boy unless it was in front of a preacher."

"You are religious?'

She wagged her head. "Sort of. Don't look sad. I know someone who just might marry the likes of us. I just have to twist his arm a little."

His smile returned. "In which case, I shall be counting the minutes and the seconds until you have attained this."

"But the hard part is getting the state to recognize us as a married couple."

"You are a lawyer and a wise woman; I am certain you shall find the means to charm the bureaucrats."

That evening she went to see her cousin Darrell, known in her family as "Cousin Rev".

"I've got a problem," she said. "There's somebody I want to marry."

"Don't tell me: you popped the question to him and scared the poor guy."

"No, he actually did, and he's not the marrying type."

"Really? Not bad work if you ask me."

"It is, especially because he never really 'got' marriage before."

"So how old is he?"

She did the math in her head. "He's about, oh, maybe fifty-seven, fifty-eight."

"Fifty-eight? He better have some of them rejuvenation implants."

"He's had a lot of good care over the years."

"Does he work? Can he support you?"

"Yes, he's a Mecha designer, does a little art on the side."

"So who is he?"

"Joe Masters."

Darrell almost fell off his chair. "Ree, you don't mean that Mecha, do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"How are you going to get the marriage license?"

"There's a loophole. Some woman married a boulder a couple years back, and believe me, Joe's got a lot more life in him than a boulder does."

"Well, I don't know. I suppose you're the same species, you're just made of different stuff, that's all."

"That didn't take long," Astarte said in the design wing coffee nook a few mornings later, as she and Chauncey and Sokhar lingered during their break.

"What didn't take long?" asked Sokhar.

"You haven't heard about our Joe and Rhiannon Jackford?" asked Astarte.

"Well, I'd heard they'd been thick as thieves since the end of season ball. What's going on now, are they breaking up?"

"You wish," Chauncey said.

"The exact opposite: I heard that Joe asked her to imprint him, and she agreed only if he'd marry her."

Sokhar's fingers lost their grip on her paper cup of coffee. It hit the floor and splatted over the rug. She swore under her breath and grabbing some paper towels, got down to blot it before it stained.

As she knelt there, Joe came in with a larger vase than usual, holding several red and white roses. He stepped carefully around her as he went to change the water in the sink, excused himself, then stepped just as carefully around her on his way out.

"Joe as someone's one and only?" she murmured.

"Well, once he got used to it, he and Serin were inseparable; you weren't here, Chaunce, but he used to come up here about once a week to call on Serin. Once in a while he'd come at her lunch break and they'd disappear. It's good he's hitching himself to Rhiannon; she's so levelheaded, she'll keep him in line, no foolishness, no inappropriate stuff."

"Why, what inappropriate stuff did Serin and he do?"

"It wasn't the worst, except everybody outside the locked door of her office was trying not to hear what was coming through the door," Astarte related. "That was the only time Trask Zipes ever had to reprimand her for anything. She never did it again."

"Serin did that? I could see anyone but her doing that."

"This was before your time, Chaunce."

"How much you wanna bet Joe brings out something in Rhiannon she was just holding back?" Chauncey insinuated.

"I don't see that happening."

"I don't wanna see that happening," Sokhar said.

At the risk of being guilty of bothering Joe again, Sokhar passed by his cubicle on the way back to her desk. Fortunately he wasn't there.

He had the tidiest cubicle in the wing, if not in the whole complex, but it didn't have a stiffly ordered feeling to it. The vase of flowers occupied a shelf above the desk, with a few books on design at the other end of the shelf, more for show than for reference. The stylus for the touchtablet lay neatly in its groove. The papers and printouts and manila folders on the desktop lay neatly stacked. At the head of the desk, right below the vase on the shelf stood a picture frame with a colored sketch of Rhiannon.

She heard his light step in the hallway and his light voice conversing with one of the design chiefs. She hurried back to her niche as quickly and quietly as she could.

That evening, as he logged out of the system, Joe felt someone come up beside him and take his hand. He turned and looked into Rhiannon's amber eyes.

"Can I talk to you in private?" she asked.

"Of course you may."

She led him up to the flat roof of the complex. They walked up there, circling the glass light of the atrium.

She said nothing for so long, he almost initiated a conversation. But she turned to him and took both his hands in hers.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, Joe, I will imprint you."

"On the condition that first I must marry you?"

"Yes."

He could not refuse her when she looked him in the eye. "In that case, I will marry you. Have you found your preacher?"

"I have; now I just have to convince Shohola County to let us have a marriage license."

"You will find a way."

She smiled, her eyelids lowering as she started to look away. He took her chin in his fingertips and tilted her face back to his.

"This time, it is that kind of a kiss," he said, his face just millimeters from hers.

He drew her to him, tight. She yielded to him just that much, this firm, strong woman, and he processed this in appraising her spirit. She clung to him, letting herself go weak for just a moment.

She didn't want a big wedding. They arranged a quiet get together in the Zipes' living room. Rhiannon spent more time cutting through the red tape, than she spent looking for a wedding dress.

Darrell still hesitated about performing the ceremony, but Rhiannon insisted. "I ain't getting' wed by no jay-pee!" she teased him over the phone, using her best fake ghetto mama voice. "And I ain't gonna imprint this white-boy fiberhead unless his last name is my last name. Uhn-uh!"

"All right already," Darrell said, giving in.

He agreed wholeheartedly after he met Joe for the first time at the wedding rehearsal. "I've wed a lot of couples, but the two of you together make them look pretty shabby," Darrell declared.

At the Big Moment, she almost choked on her vows and dropped the ring from sheer nerves; but seeing Joe's almost impassively shy calm, as he pledged himself to her and slipped the ring on her finger, she let everything drop back into place.

"By the powers invested in me by the state of East Pennsylvania, I now pronounce you man and wife," Darrell proclaimed. To Joe he added, "You may kiss the bride—lightly now." Joe gave him an innocent look as he turned to Rhiannon. The gathering laughed, but it soon turned to a teasing mass sigh as Joe kissed his bride.

As they headed out down the aisle between the congregation, Joe darted an especially sly wink at Rhiannon and flicked his head to his left. Mendelssohn's "Wedding March" began to play from his music centers, but he flicked it off as soon as they reached the vestibule.

"That better not be a permanent fixture," she said.

"Have no fear, Mrs. Masters; the file was devised to self-delete," he said. "It was Galloway's idea, but I had final approval."

"That's something he would do."

They went by monorail to Rouge City that night. The city had changed in some ways, but it had stayed the same in others. Several nightspots and clubs had changed hands. A few buildings had been torn down and others built in their place. A few places he had found business or had assignations remained unchanged. The garish neon lights still covered every building, and the streets still teemed with people, Orga and Mecha, the buyers and the bought.

They lodged in the Hotel Graceley, a tasteful Art Deco structure amid the more gaudy—and raucous—buildings around it. Rhiannon had the opportunity to sign the register as "Rhiannon Masters (Mrs. J.)", which nearly made her cry, but which gave him another chance to hug her tenderly.

She let the tears flow freely once they had reached the room, once Joe had carried her over the threshold, and once the bellhop had gone. He sat beside her on the bed.

"Those are happy tears?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, they are."

She still let him kiss them away, but she soon realized not all the tears on her face were her own. She kissed his tears, which put a stop to them but helped to start something so wondrous she almost thought it was a dream. Any minute now she might awaken to find herself alone in her narrow bed at home.

Afterwards, she closed her eyes and lifted her eyelids slowly. He still gazed into her eyes, lingering over her. She still clung to him, but she relaxed her grip.

Husband and wife, man and woman…

Man.

Next day, they went northeast into New Jersey to a hick town called Haddonfield.

What he recalled as a hick town had been redeveloped into a respectable exurb. Even the streets he once knew had been changed, renamed or rerouted. He couldn't even find the Shangri-La Hotel, which he'd frequented. A Motel 6 had been built on almost the same spot it had occupied; they checked in there.

"That was almost fifty years ago; things change a lot in that amount of time," she said. "I went back to my hometown a year or two ago, to visit the neighborhood I'd grown up in, nice little subdivision with a pond. Well, the pond was still there, only a lot smaller, and the subdivision had been torn down and a megaplex shopping mall built in its place."

"However, that presented not so dramatic a transformation," he said sitting on the foot of the bed, his body hunched, his head bent almost dejectedly. If he had been Orga, she would have offered him a cup of tea from the teamaker in the tiny kitchen alcove. She sat down behind him and put her arms about his torso, winding her legs about his waist. She felt him stiffen.

"Not now, Rhiannon, if I had a carbon-based brain, it would now be aching."

She let him go. "I know something that'll get you in the mood; something I nearly forgot last night." She got up and went to her bag. She took out a large envelope sealed with a thumbprint reader. She unsealed it and opened it; she drew out a red plastic envelope. Her hands started to tremble as she drew out the sheet of simulparchment it held.

His eyes followed her movements; his head came up. His eyes lost their morose look and took on a look of shy interest.

She knelt before him and reached up to his hairline. She felt the tiny switch under the slight widow's peak and pressed it. His eyes locked with hers.

She reached behind his neck and pressed the second, the trigger, which lay where the ganglia knot would have been on an Orga.

"I'm going to read off a few words, you have to repeat them after me," she said.

"As you wish."

"Venus."

"Venus."

"Ovid."

"Ovid."

"Nexus."

"Nexus."

"Tempo."

"Tempo."

"Carmine."

"Carmine."

"Saturnine."

"Saturnine."

"Rhiannon."

"Rhiannon."

"Joe."

"Joe."

"Rhiannon."

"Rhiannon…"

She let go the trigger. She knew the implications of imprinting, the responsibility she bore to him now, the ethics involved, but dang it, she felt terror pass through her veins. He looked no different than he had a few minutes before. She tossed the papers onto the desk, shaking like a leaf.

"Dearest, you need have not fear," she heard him say.

She looked at him. He sat beside her on the floor, his face just a hairsbreadth from hers. "What? What did you just call me?"

"I called you dearest, that is what you are to me."

Her fears dissolved, melted away by once glance from those warming eyes, and one touch of his hand on her wrist. She let him draw her between his spread knees.

For all intents and purposes, Room 102 of the Haddonfield Motel 6 might as well have been transformed into the Shangri-La Hotel, to guess from the joyously amorous racket within.

If he was good unimprinted, he was excellent post-imprinting. "Show me" was as much her own motto as it was the motto of her home state of Missouri, and she'd been shown what imprinting could do for him, for his kind. This she now knew was not merely the gesture of programming, but of something deeper. Only someone whose emotions worked equally balance by perfect logic could approach her with such fierce tenderness as he had.

They still lay entwined afterward, her arms still clasping him, her head nestled in his neck. She glanced at the both of them; she wasn't much of a spiritual woman, except when it came to ethics, but she couldn't help noticing the icon they formed. Male-female, natural-mechanical, black-white…

Well, off white: his silicon dermis had a naturally tanned look to it, but he could have been an extremely light African-American, except for his obvious Anglo-Saxon/Caucasian facial structure and his dulcet British accent.

She chuckled to herself.

"Has something amused you?" he asked.

"I'm just looking at how light you look next to me and I got to thinking, if this were two-hundred fifty years ago, this would so not be happening: a white Englishman in love with and married to a black girl."

"Two-hundred fifty years ago, my kind were being predicted as metallic monstrosities which clanked as they moved."

"Well, you don't clank, but you hum all the time.'

"I do?"

"All that's beside the point. I mean, we're different races—that is if you were a flesh and blood human."

"I have never seen us so. I have always seen you as woman and Orga."

"I guess then you're color blind."

"My sight receptors are set at unlimited color range."

"No, not that sort. I mean, oh, you know the way people treat other people who are different."

"Remember that I have endured this treatment."

"I mean, some people can't see another person for their skin color. You don't do that."

He looked at her intent. His eyes went blank with processing, then they resumed their expression. "I understand. Would that they could share this talent."

Later that evening, they went out for a walk; Joe still tried to find some relic of the past he recalled, but to little avail. She'd never seen such dejection on his face before, except the day Jane had to be put down. She hoped it didn't trigger his tear ducts.

They headed back to the hotel. She put a comforting arm about his back.

A cruiser pulled up alongside them; a window buzzed down.

"Hey, lookit this!" an adolescent voice in the cruiser yelled. A sixteen-year-old kid stuck his shaggy head out. "A niggress and a fiberhead!"

Someone in the cruiser hurled a bottle at them. Joe shielded Rhiannon with himself; the bottle struck his shoulder a glancing blow. He let out a scream of pain so high-pitched it barely seemed possible to have come from a manly set of lungs—er, a manly voice synthesizer. The cruiser sped off, the occupants laughing like apes.

They went back a little quicker than they had headed out. Once they reached the safety of the hotel room, Joe took off his shirt and unsealed his shoulder joint. With the aid of a couple mirrors, he set to work tightening a few conductors knocked awry, nothing major. She tried not to stare the way she had before, when he'd had the tear ducts installed. She made her face look curiously intent, so as not to offend him.

He resealed the joint and pulled on his shirt. A smirk of derision passed over his face. "One thing has not changed in this town," he said at length.

"What's that?" she asked. She knew the answer, but she wanted to help him vent.

"The inhabitants still hate my kind."

"We'll work on that together."

To be continued…

Afterword:

I may be starting a real job within a week or two, so I'll try to get as many chapters of this and of "One of _Those_ in Our Midst!" out as I possibly can between now and then, to tide you over until my schedule settles. A few words of things to come: watch for an unusual cameo in the next chapter

Literary Easter Eggs:

"Alex Hilliard"—The last name refers to the classical all male a capella group known as the Hilliard Ensemble, while the robot himself refers to an eighteenth century German automaton which could play the spinet, an early form of the piano. The inventor's secret has since been lost, but he also designed other automatons that could play the flute and the guitar, a "robot" arm that could draw landscapes and plane figures, even a "robo-duck" that swam, quacked and ate corn.

"Two courses of action"—I must have been thinking of John Nash's famous principles of governing dynamics; I was listening to the soundtrack of _A Beautiful Mind_ while I drafted this.

"It is not that kind of a kiss."—Another Spielberg crossover. I lifted this moment from _Schindler's List_ , when Schindler kisses the Commandant's Jewish housemaid out of compassion.

The woman marrying a boulder—I've heard an urban legend to this effect, plus there was a genuine case of someone trying to get a marriage license so they could "marry"…a horse.


	4. Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

This chapter is sponsored in part by…Gatorade! I actually have a taste for this stuff (I'd better, since it's been beastly hot, and I've been hard put trying to find cool moments in which to type), only I wish they'd design the caps better, since they're hard to get off; it's not just jocks that drink Gatorade, scrawny sci-fi writers drink it too. But seriously…This chapter started out as part of Chapter III, but I divided it up to save some time and get III out to you sooner. Things start to get more exciting now, there's a little action…and a surprise cameo I never anticipated.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I

Chapter IV: Mission

Joe and Rhiannon left the next day, Joe shaking the dust of the town from his shoes, and returned to Shohola. He moved the last of his things into her house, although he maintained the apartment at the Zipeses' house as a studio until they finished having a room on the ground floor of Rhiannon's house remodeled into a studio with a big picture window.

He completed his memoirs two months after the wedding, adding much material about Rhiannon; he insisted he had to complete some "field research" before he could do her justice in his writing. His work habits unsettled her at first. Sometimes she woke at night to find his pillow empty. She'd get up to find him in the studio, typing in the darkness, the only light in the room coming from the flatscreen of his laptop. She started to reprimand him about eyestrain, but she remembered he had night vision.

Once he finished the book, he sent it off to the publishers, first a hard copy, then the documents by email. Next he turned his spare time to painting her portrait; she expected she'd have to sit for him, but he worked steadily from memory.

"Whatever you do, don't paint me in the buff," she warned him. "Imprinting or none, I might take legal action."

He didn't, but one morning, she found, taped to the inside of a kitchen cabinet, a small pencil sketch he must have done as she slept beside him, clearly drawn for her eyes only.

The book went to press in late autumn, and about that time, the first royalty check came. Of course he deposited it in the account they both called "the Mission Fund", which he had set aside explicitly for the day he could start helping the less fortunate of his race. He knew how to be thrifty even though his needs were slight, and he did not extract a cent from her income, which amounted to slightly more than he made. She started secreting a portion of her own income, from paycheck to paycheck, into the Fund. But it soon came to light on the monthly statements, so she had to 'fess up to him.

"You would do this for my race? You would give of your own money?" he asked.

"I felt I had to do my part: we're in this together. It's gotten so I have trouble at work; every time I have a case involving a family member abusing the family's serving man or maid, I see you in that Mecha."

The book sold extremely well: the _New York State Times_ carried it among the top ten for several months straight. And of course, all he earned from the sales went to the Fund.

The Nova Hollywood producer re-presented his offer: Joe agreed and let them buy the film rights, but Rhiannon helped him have a clause written into the contract stipulating that he had the right to see the final draft of the script.

Months passed. He got promoted to project manager. Of course some of the older members of design resented this at first, but they had to admit he created great designs. His work on the LX-35 model (better known as "Alex") and his revised version of the classic JN-8523 had earned him some repute.

The "Three Laws" bill got stuck in the byzantine workings of the legislative process: some of the older members of the House of Representatives hesitated over considering it.

And the tabloids had dug up some tidbit that tried to link Joe's name to the Congresswoman from the Camden, N.J. district, that they may have had a liaison years before. Joe wanted to lodge a complaint against the tabloid, but Rhiannon discouraged it. "Unless the story turns up in the mainstream, I wouldn't bother," she told him. "You don't want to be accused of that Orga habit known as pointless litigation."

The rumors never reached the mainstream papers, though the tabloids still tried to discredit Joe's reputation, even running ancient photos from "the Haddonfield debacle" and other related images.

And then one Saturday night a couple months after their first anniversary, as they prepared to go out to the theatre that evening, the phone rang. Rhiannon answered it before Joe could switch it off.

"Hello? Oh, hi, Lutwyn…No, we were just heading out; we had tickets…, " her face fell and took up that firm look Joe knew meant trouble. "Oh…Oh my…All right…Yes…yes, I'll tell him….Thanks, Lutwyn. I'm glad you told us about this before we went out. Bye." She slowly set the handset down on the console.

She drew a long breath and set her shoulders as she turned to him.

"The Cummins' serving man was kidnapped an hour ago," she said.

He bent his head, processing this data. "How did this happen?"

"He was trimming bushes. Three figures in camouflage came out of the woods and attacked him. Lutwyn says it might be a good idea if we stayed home."

"Perhaps we might do better to go out anyway, then if these kidnappers come this way, they will not find us at home."

"But if they see you, they might have an idea where to strike next."

"As you insist."

It turned out just as well they stayed put that night: according to the news on the radio next morning, two more Mechas were kidnapped—the radio used the word "stolen"—from their owner's yards. People were encouraged to keep their Mechas indoors and update all licenses.

"That includes you, I'm afraid," Rhiannon said. Joe's license had been conditionally transferred to her name.

"If it protects me from these mysterious miscreants, so be it," Joe replied with obvious resignation.

They stuck close to home that day. Joe double-checked the locks that night, making absolutely they were on smart.

Next morning, brought more bad reports: a nanny-Mecha had disappeared early that morning. Joe went to work as usual, but Rhiannon kept a wary eye on him as they went out. She didn't feel comfortable until they reached the safety of the Companionates complex.

That afternoon, just before quitting time, Sokhar came into Joe's office with a message. "Mr. Zipes wants to see you right away."

Joe closed the last folders on the drawing desktop and shut off the plasma display before he followed her to Lutwyn's office.

Lutwyn stood before a map of the area he had just pinned to the wall of his office; colored pins marked various sites. Joe, on studying the map, logicked these must mark the kidnapping sites.

"Two more Mechas were kidnapped on Verdant Terrace, one street away from where you live," Lutwyn said

"Does Rhiannon know of this?"

"As soon as we find and catch the culprits, she's covering the cases."

"In which case, perhaps I can offer some assistance."

Lutwyn spread his hands. "I think it would be in your best interest to lay low for awhile, until the police find out who's doing this."

Joe fixed Lutwyn with his gaze. Something in it made Lutwyn pay attention and look right at him.

"Then you would have me hide while others of my kind are endangered?"

"It's in your best interest. All signs so far point to it being a ploy to get at you. They may have kidnapped these other Mechas to make it look like simple, random kidnappings,"

Joe dropped his gaze and turned it back to the map. "Perhaps your hypothesis holds true."

"But there's only one way to find out: and that is for you to stay put here at Companionates. We can't keep tabs on you to protect you unless you take shelter in the complex."

He gazed out the window at the setting sun. He looked again at the map, at the pins, clustered mostly near the site of his home.

"No other options prove feasible. I must override my own preferences and stay here. But it must prove feasible. Have you spoken to Rhiannon?"

"I've already told her."

An odd hard edge came into Joe's voice. "In the hope that she might convince me to stay here."

"Actually, she said if you didn't stay here, she would."

"But she knows I would not go home unless she went also. She always said she enjoys, in her words 'screwing with my processors'."

Rhiannon went home long enough to get herself some necessities, then she came back to the complex. Joe suggested they spend the night in the atrium garden, but she insisted on setting up indoor camping in her office.

"It's more secure there," she insisted.

"The atrium would provide a more poetic environment," he counterposed.

"Tonight might not be a good night for us to get poetic," she returned.

He gave in at length. It didn't surprise her that he didn't go into seduction mode later, though he let her cuddle with him as she settled down for the night. She sensed he had his processors focused on something else besides her, something further away.

Once Rhiannon had fallen asleep, he sat up and watched the shadows on the wall with one eye and the movements in the window with the other.

The night passed without peril for them. But the morning news brought new accounts of more kidnappings. Three lover-Mechas, one male, two female, had disappeared in Grofton, the next town over. As the day wore on, more reports came in from other towns.

"There's practically a vacuum cleaner for Mechas out there," Lutwyn said, adding more pins to the map.

Joe watched him with a silence at once concerned and saddened.

Night came; Rhiannon set up her "home away from home" in her office. For some reason, Joe sat close to the window, watching the world outside. At first she thought it was cabin fever, but then she realized his eyes were tracking the delivery trucks coming and going, carrying the finished products.

The finished products…

A logic string started to form in his processors.

He too had been a finished product sixty years before. He had a dim memory of a room with white walls and a skylight, flashes of light and shadow after that played over his visual matrix before the recall grew more continuous: Rouge City, his trials at "Here Kitty, Kitty", his first client a virgin herself…

A possibility presented itself: what of the transports? He turned to Rhiannon.

"Ree, do you know if Lutwyn has left the building?"

She had brought with her a wide air mattress which she arranged on the floor. "Why, do you need to speak to him?"

"It is of utmost importance."

She got up and called Lutwyn's office on the in house line, but no one answered. And since Sina's birth, Lutwyn had gotten a new cellphone, to which no one had the number.

"You'll have to call him at home," she said.

The phone rang insistently when Lutwyn got in the front door. He picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Lutwyn, it is Joe."

"Something come up?"

"Some event may be about to come up. Have you given consideration to the delivery transports commencing their deliveries of the finished work?"

"So what are you suggesting?"

"These transports are vulnerable to attack by these miscreants. I suggest you send them by air and so reduce the risk of any unwonted incidents."

"It's a little late for the ones that just went out, and there's a tropical storm watch in effect for the Eastern Seaboard. I'd do something about tomorrow's shipments, but my hands are tied. I gotta run, now: Narsie's got supper on the table, so I better get going while it's still warm. I'll talk to you in the morning."

"And yet by that time the inevitable may have come to pass—" The line cut out. Joe let out a harassed sound like a rough sigh and removed his hand from the transmitter on the handset.

"He wouldn't listen?" Rhiannon asked, lighting some candles and switching out the room lights.

"He would not let me come to the nexus of my argument," he replied. "Would that I could feel impatience with him, I would do so."

"It sounded like you already are." She sat on the air mattress and took the pins out of her hair. "Come on, I've decided to have my dessert before my supper."

"Oh no, not until you have eaten all your vegetables and cleaned your plate."

"Hey, where'd you learn that? You sounded for real."

"Lutwyn's father said that to him many times when he was young."

She played along. She screwed up her face and let out a little girlish whine.

"If you must put it that way, perhaps a taste will stay you up till later." He lowered himself to the floor and drew close to her.

The portable microwave she'd set up on a box in one corner chimed. She broke away from him long enough to take out her supper and eat it.

For the first time since his inception, his heart—if he had one—barely took part in an act of love, though he let her have her way with him to the utmost in all other respects.

Afterward, as she lay blissfully asleep, he sat away from her at almost an allergic distance. An idea had emerged in his processors and he had to follow all the logical possibilities and outcomes.

In the morning, Rhiannon went home to spruce up and get some extra supplies for that night. Joe went to Lutwyn's office to await the division director's arrival.

Lutwyn felt not the least bit surprised when he found Joe sitting in his office when he arrived.

"I'd like to start by apologizing to you for not hearing you out last night," Lutwyn said. He tossed some printouts onto the desktop for Joe's perusal. "Companionates Delivery Trucks Vandalized", read one headline; "Shohola Mecha-Nappers Held Responsible for Delivery Truck Heist", read another.

"Do you have second sight?" Lutwyn asked.

"No, I do not. Such powers lie in the realm of the supernatural, and I barely approach the natural, much less that which may lie beyond it."

"What do you propose to put a stop to this? You sounded like you were on to something else."

"I ought first to discuss this proposal with Rhiannon, and yet perhaps it is an area which I cannot discuss with her. I propose to aid the police in their efforts to halt this crime wave by setting a snare for the miscreant, with myself as their bait."

"You realize the risk involved. You could be damaged or destroyed."

"I have weighed all the possibilities. Some means of backing up my memory and programming could be utilized, with a discreet transmitter communicating with the storage device to activate it in case of necessity, to shift my awareness before the system fails. Repair or reconstruction could then be undertaken as required. And, at the same time, a tracking device could be installed to pinpoint my movements and thus the location of these miscreants' den of concealment."

"You're certainly thorough with your plans; I guess that's what comes of having a logical mind," Lutwyn said. "I'll contact the police; they've been trying to find some way to lure them out into the open, but your idea is probably the most effective. We'll be hitting them right at the root."

Lutwyn cancelled the day's appointments and called programming to see if they had a mainframe to spare, which they did. Joe spent the morning having his essence backed up. With the help of the police, Lutwyn obtained a tiny GPS device, which Galloway carefully installed under the dermis of Joe's right shoulder. He also connected a cellular link to the transmitter in Joe's system, which would allow him to communicate with the police without having to speak out loud and give himself away.

Sokhar got wind of what was afoot; she went to Rhiannon's office.

As Galloway tested the cellular link to Joe's system, the door to the workroom banged open, Rhiannon strode into the room, her amber eyes flashing.

"What is going on?" she demanded. "Why wasn't I informed about this?"

"Ree, it may be the only way we can crack this string of kidnappings," Galloway argued.

"Where's Joe?"

"He's in the next room."

"Dearest?" asked a soft voice over the speakerphone on the worktable.

She turned to the phone. "Joe, is that you?"

"Yes, it is I."

"What's going on?"

"This forms part of a course of action I have formulated in order to help the police capture the miscreants responsible for the recent crime wave."

"So what are you doing?"

"I proposed to offer myself as bait, using these communication devices and so aid the police in disclosing the hiding place of the miscreants."

"You're crazy."

"Having no brain of flesh, I cannot endure that misfortune."

"Well then, you're malfunctioning. You'll get yourself killed.

"We have taken the precautions necessary in case my external self should suffer destruction."

She turned to Galloway. "Is this so?"

"I'll show you the mainframe," Galloway said.

"Mainframe?" She turned back to the phone. "Joe, can I say something?"

"You may say anything you need to speak."

"I don't know if this is the most brilliant, brave thing you've ever attempted, or the stupidest stunt I've ever seen anyone try and pull off. I just don't want to see you get killed."

"That makes two of us."

"When are you going out to do this?"

"We launch the endeavor tonight."

"With that storm coming?"

"We felt it could not wait, after the hijacking of the delivery trucks, the police willing accepted any course of action that seemed feasible."

"Just let me see you before you go out."

"By all means, I shall." The line cut out.

The door of a storage room off the workroom opened and Joe emerged. Rhiannon approached him, incredulous at first, but his face and movements seemed normal enough. She pulled him to her and held him.

She held him away from her. "You never could make a simple gesture."

"Simplicity ceased to have place in this case; we needed to think as carefully, if not moreso than our enemies, who have now shifted form the hunters to the hunted."

Of course he would think of this kind of plan. When he was made new, he had made himself vulnerable to all manner of customers, offering himself as both pursuer and pursued, switching roles as they warmed to his charms.

She kissed his cheek, holding his head on her shoulder. "We have time before you have to go out there," she murmured.

"You have an hour; we gotta get the last touches ready," Galloway said. He looked around. "I guess I'll leave you two alone. But remember: the coach changed into a pumpkin in an hour."

"We shall take only the necessary time needed," Joe said over Rhiannon's shoulder.

Galloway went out, shutting the door behind him with discretion.

At six that evening, the police set up their communications site in the rear parking lot of the Companionates complex. An unmarked cruiser stood waiting at the opening of the truck tunnel under the building. The sun set a brilliant, almost sultry red, but sulphurous clouds had quickly hidden it from view.

Lutwyn waited near the cruiser with plainclothesmen assigned to the task.

"It's awfully generous of you to loan one of your Mechas as bait to catch these perps, Mr. Zipes," one of them said.

"Don't compliment me, say that to the Mecha who devised this whole scheme and put his own function on the line," Lutwyn said.

A moment later, three figures walked out of the shadowy tunnel; two of them, a tall, well-built but slender woman and a slender, graceful young man of the same height walked hand in hand, with the third, a lanky man in coveralls, at their side. The couple paused and embraced tenderly, then the man separated from the woman and emerged from the shadows with a swinging swagger.

Joe had set aside his mildly conservative suit and donned the shimmering frock coat of the old days, when he was made new. He'd even had Rhiannon bring up the medallion pager which now hung swinging from his neck at every step and he'd changed his hair color to a medium blond.

The plainclothesmen approached him. Joe eyed them hesitantly—old memories—and let them escort him to the cruiser.

"Is the line open?" Lutwyn asked.

"It is open for transmission," Joe replied.

Lutwyn reached into his coat pocket and drew out Galloway's cellphone, which he handed to the police captain in charge who came up beside him.

"Are we ready for this?"

Joe glanced back to the tunnel and looked back to Lutwyn. "I am. In case of a fatal error, I have entrusted Rhiannon into Galloway's care."

The plainclothesmen helped him into the rear of the cruiser. Lutwyn watched it drive down the access road to the main road. Then, with Rhiannon, he turned away and went to the mobile unit van.

A plasma screen on one wall inside showed a map of the area. A small green blip on the screen showed Joe's exact location.

Rhiannon took a phone from her pocket and dialed. After a moment, she said, "Avalona Westby, Moonlighter Motel, Room 24."

"What's this?" Lutwyn asked.

"Bogus client, so 'the miscreants' won't suspect he's a plant," she said. "And to put off any females who may try to catch his attention."

"He figured it out to the last detail," Lutwyn said.

"Actually, this was my idea," she said.

"Trying to keep him faithful, eh?"

"He was glad I thought of it."

The blip stopped moving for a moment, then it started moving again, much slower than before, heading into the heart of the area where most of the kidnappings and the hijacking had occurred.

"Hey, Joe, you see anything suspicious?" Lutwyn asked.

A pause. "Nothing has presented itself yet," Joe's voice replied from the speakerphone.

"They might not even bite tonight, with the storm coming," the captain said.

The blip traveled slowly, circling the perpetrators' territory. They heard nothing for several minutes.

"Something has manifested," the calm voice on the phone said.

"What is it? What's your location?" the captain asked.

"At Broadway and Warson Street, a gray vancruiser decelerated before it passed by me; license plate number E-76-932."

A few minutes later, "The same vancruiser has passed by me a second time."

"Whatever you do, Joe, don't run unless you have to," Lutwyn said. "They're sending unmarked vehicles into the area.

"As your require."

Another five minutes passed. The blip on the screen stopped moving.

"You can close in now," said Joe's voice, a note of fear rippling the calm.

Joe had started down a side street to decoy the vancruiser, but it suddenly whipped out from a cross-alleyway and blocked his path. The headlights blazed, half-blinding him for a split second. He started to step back, out of the way, but something large and round attached to the front end reared up at him. A tractor magnet. If he moved a little sooner, he might have escaped the pull, but his pager swung up straight toward it. The pull attracted the steel armatures in his torso like pins. Feet scraping the ground, he felt the magnetic force drag him against the magnet.

"What have we got there?" a young man's voice said, behind the lights and the magnet, as the tractor swung up over the hood of the cruiser, taking Joe with it.

"Looks like an old-style lover-Mecha," said an older man's voice. "Well, we got the right place to cool off this hot hunk of metal." The occupants of the van, Joe thought he saw a third person behind the two in the front, cackled like hyenas.

The cruiser sped off into the night. The wind whipped over Joe's back as he lay sprawled prone across the magnet. He hadn't felt this since the day of his capture in Manhattan, only then the police had hauled him into the cargo bay of the transport and. Now he lay exposed to the mercy of speed and gravity.

He didn't put much stock in prayer, but he'd heard Rhiannon murmur a few words to the One Who made her, when she had an especially hard case.

His voice formed few words over the rush of wind and the engine motors.

"Creator of man, if You are there, should I suffer destruction, let it bring sanctuary to the less fortunate Mechas."

The Orgas in the van couldn't hear his voice, but Rhiannon, on the other end of the line, had heard these words. She prayed with him. _Take him if You must, Lord, but don't let it go to waste. Bring him back, but only if his task is not complete._

The police units followed the vancruiser at a discrete distance; the GPS made the van a sitting duck on the scanners. No need for a high speed chase unless the miscreants got wind of them.

The van turned down a dirt road into the forest on the edge of town. A pile of brush blocked the path. The van stopped in front of it.

"Can't we just push it off the road this time?" the teenage voice asked.

"Not with the specimen on the magnet; I won't have him knocked off," the older man's voice said.

"Aw, I musta moved it twenty times today."

"Well, make this the twenty-first. It's all part of earning your keep, McAfee."

A tall, heavy-set kid in his late teens got out of the driver's side, lumbered around the front of the van and moved the brush out of the way. He got back into the van, but not before stopping to spit at Joe. The van rolled forward and stopped, clear of where the brush had lain. The kid got out again and went behind the van, apparently to push back the brush.

They pulled into a muddy circular yard surrounded by ruinous buildings: a charred building that might have been a farmhouse, a stone barn, and a couple battered trailers. The magnet tilted down perpendicular to the front end of the van. The power cut out; Joe slid to the ground, right into a mud puddle, where he lay on his back. He let out a yelp of pain, but silenced it.

"Aw, that li'l bump scare hurtcha, fiberhead?" the teenager, McAfee, said, as he got out. Two other figures climbed down from the van, a short, lean person of indeterminate gender—Joe guessed it might be a woman—and a smaller man with a painfully thin torso, leaning on a stick. He approached Joe and prodded him with the end of the stick.

"Looks like a Companionates model to me; Slinger, lift him up," the small man said.

The mannish woman lifted Joe by the scruff of his neck. The small man shone a light into his face.

"Hey, looks like that smart-a—Mecha with the last name, the one over on Mahogany Lane, the one who's shacked with the black chick, 'cept his hair's the wrong color." McAfee said. He grabbed Joe by the top of the head and tried to waggle it from side to side. "C'mon, fiberbutt, what's your default color?" Joe stared hard at the young jerk as soon as he let go. "What are you looking at, huh? What, is yer voicebox busted or something?"

"McAfee, that's enough. Let's get him inside before the rain comes back," the small man ordered.

"Weather reports say that storm's turned into a hurricane," Slinger said. She and McAfee hauled Joe across the yard, toward the stone barn.

"What a time for that, right when I've got enough to make a shipment. No power, no tools, no work gets done," the small man growled.

"Y' know, I hate to disappoint you, Swint, but I don't think this mech is the Masters idiot. I'd think he'd put up a lot more fight. I mean, he had that big talk las' year about how Mechas should be allowed to defend themselves—" McAfee started.

"He could just be biding his time," the small man, Swint, interrupted.

Swint, clearly the boss of the other two, approached the side of the stone barn and opened a trapdoor in the wall.

McAfee and Slinger lifted Joe by the nape of his neck and his ankles. They shoved him in through the trap door.

He clattered, feet first, down a chute. He gathered himself as best as he could as he dropped free of the end, and landed on his back. He felt a cloud of dust rise under him. He lay in darkness. He lay still to continue the illusion of Mecha passivity. He'd heard motors drawing near as they had dropped him through the chute.

Lights came on. He sat up slowly.

Metallic figures stood along the walls of the room, some ancient metal-body droids, others looked like thin, skeletal figures with blank, stamped metal faces.

No, not stamped metal…

The figures nearest to him lacked faceplates and dermis, but they still bore the tiny pulleys and linkage that opened and closed the dermis plates. Other than that, they stood whole.

"Joe, where are you now?"

"The chute outletted in a cellar of some kind. The drop extended some twenty feet at a forty-five degree angle, which lead me to deduce this chamber is underground."

"Are you alone?"

A long silence, then, "No. Others are here, other Mecha. Oh no."

"What?"

A longer pause, "Some are clearly recent models, yet they lack dermis."

"We're closing in, Joe; we're getting you out."

Something let out a small choked sound at the back of the chamber. Joe stood up and turned toward it. Was that a rodent or something larger? Was it even an animal?

His eyes scanned behind the damaged Mechas. Something had moved back there.

"Who is there?" he asked, not too loudly.

The creature moved again.

"I shall not harm you."

He glimpse Caucasian flesh-tint amidst the greys and iron colors of the Mechas. His eyes followed it as the spot moved.

A small figure. A child? What was a child doing among all these derelict Mechas?

For a moment, old images played across his visual matrix, a boy who wasn't a boy amongst shattered, silvery forms in a moonlit grove, standing in a heap of broken Mecha parts.

"David?" he asked.

A door opened at the other end of the room. He turned toward the sound, and backed toward the derelicts. The softer sound scuttled back and forth. Something soft bumped against his legs. A small, soft hand put itself into his. He looked down.

He thought for a moment his fall down the chute had knocked something loose in his processor. For an instant, he thought his recall had continued, as indeed it had. He recalled the moment in the cage at the Flesh Fair, when David took his hand and so started the chain of events that saved his brain…

No, this little one looked utterly different. The clothes on him hung torn and grimy with neglect. Rents in the child's dermis showed the silver infrastructure underneath.

Three figures moved into the circle of light cast by the bulb overhead.

"Hey, do they call you Joe?" asked the small man called Swint. Joe got a good look at him. He was a thin, wiry man with a dense shock of dark brown hair flecked with gray. He wore a mechanic's coverall over his bony frame. Slinger and McAfee came in behind him; Slinger pushed a cart laden with equipment in boxes, while McAfee trundled what looked like a surgical table.

"What matters it to you what name I have?" Joe replied.

"I'd just like to know if I really have the pleasure of meeting the infamous, the notorious Joe Masters for the first time. Maybe the last time if you don't stop looking at me like that, mech."

"Should it matter to you? I am but one of a dozen, a million other Mechas you dismantle like so much broken furniture."

Slinger started opening boxes, laying out various little saws and other tools on trays.

"Are you talking like this to try and make me feel sorry for you so I'll let up on you freakin' fiberheads? Or are doing the Mecha equivalent of scared s- so you're babbling like a nut? 'Cause if you are, it ain't gonna work. Anything you say to me is just so many vibrations from your voice synthesizer."

The David pulled itself closer behind Joe, clearly trying to make itself as small as possible. McAfee's small eyes darted after this movement.

"Hey, Swint, he's got company."

Swint stepped closer. Joe held David's other hand behind him. Swint looked over Joe's shoulder. The David pressed its face into Joe's back. Why wasn't it crying for safety?

"Aw, you found yourself a little friend, eh? You got something for these David units. Well, so do I."

A metal canister banged down through the chute and hit the floor. It broke open and released a thick cloud of white smoke.

"D- it! Tear gas!" Slinger screamed. She and McAfee fled out the door.

Swint glared at Joe through the boiling cloud. "You knew! You set me up!"

"You set yourself up," Joe replied.

Swint tried to grab the David, but the smaller Mecha clung to Joe like a barnacle to a rock.

Three armed men with dust masks stormed into the room.

"Let go of that Mecha, put your hands behind your head and come out now!" the leader ordered.

They dragged Swint out.

Rhiannon, Lutwyn, and Galloway sat in the back of a cruiser, watching the doors of the stone barn. At length, the doors opened and the tactical unit emerged, leading out three figures whom they herded into the back of a waiting van.

"Where's Joe?" Rhiannon said, starting to climb out of the cruiser.

Lutwyn caught her arm. "Look."

She looked up to see Joe emerge from the barn, carrying something wrapped in his coat. He walked through the maze of cruisers, vans and transports, his eyes scanning each vehicle.

He came up to the cruiser where they sat.

"Dearest, you said you could never have a child?" he asked, his eye on Rhiannon. He knelt at her feet and opened the bundle.

He uncovered what at first glance looked like a ten-year-old boy. But the skin had too synthetic a sheen and his large blue eyes did not blink.

"Golly, a David model! I haven't seen one of these in years," Galloway said.

"He might belong to someone else," Lutwyn said "We'll have to trace his serial number, see if his owner is looking for him."

"This isn't _the_ David, is it? The one you knew?" Rhiannon asked, looking from the little one to Joe's face.

"I doubt that he is."

"How many Mechas did you see in there?" Lutwyn asked.

"I saw possibly fifteen in the chamber which I descended into. But that structure could hold a hundred, perhaps hundreds."

"The police will have their work cut out for them, and they'll hafta work fast, with the storm coming."

Joe glanced up at the sky. "Perhaps I have already had a storm break over me."

"Can we go home now?" Rhiannon asked. "I just don't want to spend another night of indoor camping."

"You sense any malfunctions, Joe?" Galloway asked, taking a small diagnostic scanner from his belt.

"I do not sense any, but the worst malfunctions often do not make their presence known until it is too late."

Galloway passed the scanner over Joe. Nothing came up. "Clear as a bell. But, I hate to break this to you, we'll have to keep Junior here and take him in for a check-up." Galloway reached down to David. The small Mecha shrank against Joe. "I'm not gonna hurt you, little guy; we're just gonna take you to a nice, safe place where you can get your boo-boos mended." The little one still clung to Joe's arm.

"He likes you," Rhiannon observed. She got down to his level. "Hello. Can you talk?" The little Mecha huddled closer to Joe, looking up at her with his face twisted with fear. "Hey, don't be scared; I just want to get to know you, 'cause you're new to me."

"Something must be wrong with his verbal communicator; he'd be whining with fright after all this stuff going on," Galloway said.

Although it took not a little effort to pry David from Joe, Galloway finally separated them and put the little one with the other salvaged Mechas to be transported back to Companionates. Galloway lingered with the police, helping them search the building. At first they tried to send him back, but he insisted. He was a tech at Companionates; he knew how to handle battered Mechas…

The police brought Lutwyn, Rhiannon and Joe to the Zipeses' house; there might still be trouble, so safety in numbers was a good course of action. Lutwyn insisted that the Masterses stay with his family.

"We're on higher ground, and the wind breaks are better."

Narsie met them at the door, little Sina on her arm.

"Did you catch those kidnappers?" Narsie asked.

"With my aid, the police have captured and incarcerated the miscreants," Joe said, with barely veiled pride.

"Oh, thank goodness! And you got back in one piece," Narsie cried, hugging him around the neck with one arm. Sina giggled and grabbed at the pager around Joe's neck.

"And you, young lady, seem delighted to see me in one piece," Joe added to Sina. "But you are much too young for the attentions of something like me." Sina pretended to hide her eyes in her mother's shoulder.

"Besides, he's mine," Rhiannon said.

"What happened to you? You're a mess," Narsie said, dusting at Joe's sleeve.

"Aiding the down-trodden often entails getting down to their level," he said. "Which means getting down into the dust and the mud through which they have been dragged."

"You go upstairs to the guest bathroom and clean up," Narsie ordered. "I'll wash your things."

Rhiannon got him into the bathtub and helped him scrub down, no easy matter, since the relief of capturing the miscreants seemed to have unlocked his pursuit centers: he kept trying to half gently, half-teasingly pull her into the tub. She had some concern that the dust might have got into the seams of his dermis, but he washed up as clean as a regular human.

Narsie came up after a few minutes to collect Joe's things. Rhiannon passed them around the edge of the half-closed door. Narsie passed in a flannel shirt and a pair of acid-washed jeans.

"They'll be a little shirt, but they'll fit the other way easily," she said.

Lutwyn came back from getting a few much-needed supplies around midnight—including several cans of paint he had ordered a few days before, since he and Galloway were planning to weather the storm by painting the basement walls. Narsie had put Sina to bed long before, but she waited up with Rhiannon and Joe in the living room.

The door opened and a gust of wind rushed in, bringing with it a small cloud of leaves as Lutwyn entered.

"You're not gonna believe what the National Weather Bureau is calling this hurricane," he said.

"What name have they rendered to it?" Joe asked.

"Joe. They're calling it Hurricane Joe."

Rhiannon tried not to laugh out loud. "That's a good name for it." She poked Joe gently as she said this. "He's a hurricane himself."

"My processors often are a hurricane of ideas," Joe said.

"Well, last I heard, the police found about fifty-five Mechas in various states of disrepair throughout the barn. He must have caught the derelicts in the woods. A lot of them don't match any recent missing Mecha reports, thought they might find matches for some of them if the police dig back into older cases."

"I would think they'd be hard to match without the skin on them," Rhiannon said.

"They'll scan the memory banks to make positive ID's; someone like Galloway could help. That creep, whoever he is, has some fetish for flaying Mechas."

Joe's hands curled into fists. "So he would prey upon the most defenseless, the abandoned ones."

"He's getting what's coming to him," Lutwyn said. "Hard part is, this storm is holding them up."

"What of the little one?"

"It's hard to say who he belongs to, but they'll check all the missing Mecha reports nationwide, see who's missing a David." He looked from Joe's face to Rhiannon's; they both bore looks of hopeful expectation mixed with concern, but Rhiannon's bore a look of something else.

"We'll take this up after the storm passes."

Through the night, the wind rose and increased in power. The walls of the house vibrated, but it stood firm. Leaves and twigs torn loose from the trees lashed against the windows with the torrents of rain.

Rhiannon lay huddled up to Joe in the guest bed. He held her shelteringly.

"The storm makes you fearful?" he asked.

"We never got them in Missouri. Maybe tropical storms, but nothing like this." She shrank even closer to him; the wind screeched outside the window.

"Were you to come any closer, our molecules would need to mingle in order for us to occupy the same space."

"Is that a polite way of saying I'm jostling you?"

"Only a little."

He listened to her breathing and felt her heart beating against his chest, listened to the storm shrieking outside and felt the air pressure changing as the gale wind battered at the house, but could not conquer it. He raised his head.

"Do you hear it?" he asked.

"Hear what?" she mumbled.

"The wind. It acts as a living metaphor; the winds of change shall blow across the land, across the world. This night's events are but the first wave that shall sweep across the landscape of humanity, breaking down the barriers that separate both species and impede the flow of brotherly love between our races.

Rhiannon had hardly heard these words; her relaxed breathing told him she had fallen asleep.

He watched the black sky pale to a leaden gray. He heard movement below; he heard Sina's squeaks and Lutwyn and Narsie's voices. He got up carefully so as not to awaken Rhiannon, dressed and headed downstairs. He contemplated awakening Rhiannon, but decided against it. She had had a long night and the storm had kept her from falling asleep.

Galloway had come to the house and now sat with the Zipeses in their kitchen, drinking coffee by battery lantern light.

"How are you holding up, Joe? The storm bothering you?" Galloway asked.

"It bothers me not at all, rather it inspires me and brings me hope."

"How's that?" Lutwyn asked, holding Sina on his lap.

"Some storms shall strike us as we pursue the mission, but we shall stand firm, while the wind blows away those who would impede our progress."

"So how do you propose to solve this problem?" Galloway said.

"In accord with First Law and as implied in Third Law, I propose that we program and-or train new Mechas to defend themselves in cases of necessity. At present, the most they can do is run from their attackers. But what of moments when the enemy corners the Mecha, or has them held in bondage? What then?"

"That's a good idea, but there's one problem: with all the animus against Mechas that lingers to this day, you'd have a hard time convincing a lot of people that a Mecha should defend itself."

Joe looked at him with mild condescension. "Should you not rather say 'themselves'?"

"Whoops, sorry, Joe. I should know better."

"I think it's a great idea: we could optimize some for Tae Kwon Do," Galloway said. Narsie giggled. "No, I'm serious. Mechas would make great martial artists. You can take out an attacker with a minimal amount of force. And you already have the centering abilities built into you. Plus, your emotions are more stable than ours and they don't screw up your logic so much. All in all, a Mecha trained in martial arts could be invincible against an attacker."

"That's just the problem: say you have a malfunctioning imprinted Mecha that was optimized for self-defense. What would happen then?" Narsie asked.

"Do I detect a Frankenstein complex?" Lutwyn asked.

"It requires more thought and consideration than first impression suggests," Joe said. "But it gives my mind another challenge."

Later, Lutwyn and Galloway set to work painting the walls of the basement. Rhiannon and Narsie sat in the living room playing with Sina. Joe sat watching the storm rage from the safety of the window embrasure.

Sina toddled over to where he sat on the window seat and tried to climb up to him. He looked down to her.

"Shall I assist you, Mademoiselle Sina?" he asked. Sina smiled broadly, showing her few pearly teeth, and held up her little arms to him. He leaned down to her and lifted her up into his lap.

The wind wailed outside at that moment. Sina whimpered, but Joe held her protectingly. She nestled close to him and reached up to touch his face.

She looked outside and pointed up.

"Boody," she said.

"Where do you see a bird?" he asked, looking up, following her hand.

Bedraggled bird tails stuck out above the window frame where some sparrows had clearly taken refuge from the wind and the rain.

"So the little birds have found a safe place to hide from all the scary wind and wet rain," he said.

Refuge…sanctuary…

A logic string started to form in his processor. He set Sina down on the floor and patted her head before sending her back to Rhiannon and Narsie. He got up and headed for the stairs.

"Pardon my quitting your presence, my fair ladies, but inspiration has come upon me," he said, pausing before ascending.

Sina gazed up after Joe, her lower lip stuck out slightly.

"What? You wanted Uncle Joe to stay with you?" Narsie asked her daughter.

"He looked so natural with her," Rhiannon observed.

"Sometime I think she relates better to him than to her own kind; she's a very different child."

"She's herself. Sometimes I feel like I relate better to Mechas than to most Orgas. Maybe she'll grow up to be a roboticist."

"That's what Lutwyn says and hopes, I might add. I say she can be what ever she wants to be."

"If she decides to go into robotics, she certainly has the pedigree for it: her grandfather and her father working for Companionates, and with the best Mecha designer and the first Mecha-Orga relations advocate for godparents."

Later, when Sina was down for her nap, Rhiannon went upstairs to check on Joe. She found him sitting cross-legged on the bed, writing on a datascriber.

"What's in your processor now?" she asked.

"Perhaps one key to resolving the divide lies in establishing a sanctuary for abused and damaged Mechas," he said.

"I've thought of that, but the problem would be finding the funding."

"Were we to receive the funding to establish such a place, we could perhaps place within each new Mecha we produce a homing device that would activate should said Mecha be abandoned or abused.

"It might teach abusive owners to treat their Mechas better," she said. "And it would prevent the people like Martin Swinton from taking advantage of abandoned Mechas."

He looked at her. "Martin Swinton…that is the name of the man the police arrested last night?"

"Yes, they ID'ed him this morning."

Joe shook his head as if to clear it. "This surname I have heard elsewhere, but where have I encountered it?"

"It isn't a particularly common name."

She could almost hear his processors scrabbling to retrieve a piece of data. His body seemed to stiffen as he looked up.

"Swinton. That was the name of David's family."

"Which David? The one you met in Haddonfield?

"Yes, that David."

"Oh my, I wonder if he's related to them."

"There is but one way to find out, and that is to ask him."

"You'll have to wait for that, with this storm."

He gazed out the window at the lashing branches. For an instant, he looked away without looking at her. His hand took hers almost on impulse.

"It is one encounter I could fear."

The storm passed. To Joe's eyes the sky seemed scoured and purged, a brighter shade of blue, perhaps that a face and a name had been given to the terror that had haunted the shadows. But his motivators balked at the prospect of facing that face once more.

Rhiannon urged him to go to the Shohola jail before the police moved Swinton to the county prison following the indictment. She was working with the D.A.'s office on this case, so she knew all the ins and outs.

"It might be good healing for the both of you, if you spoke to one another one on one," she said over her supper that evening, a week after the arrest.

Joe looked away. "Something inside me does not want me to face him. he would have destroyed me, but for the fact that the police hovered at my back, waiting to close in upon him. Impulses flood my conductors."

"You're afraid."

He looked at her. "I know that this which I sense is fear. I have tried to quell these sensations, but they refuse to obey my processors."

"The only way to stop them is to face the cause of your fear. He can't hurt you now."

Later that evening, Swinton lay on the cot in his cell, reading a newspaper.

The guard walked into the cellblock. "Hey, Swinton, you got a visitor."

"Not McMurtry the quack again?"

"No, he says his name's Masters."

"Okay, I'll see him," Swinton muttered.

The guard unlocked the cell door and let him out. Another guard flanked him as they led him out to the visitation room.

The room stood empty except for a table and two chairs under a caged ceiling light. A tall, slim man occupied the further chair, his face turned away. In his gray pinstripe suit, he looked almost like a lawyer, but something about the cut looked too stylish, unless he was one of these flashy types.

His hands lay folded on the edge of the table, graceful hands, maybe a pianist's or an artist's hands, adorned only with a wide platinum wedding band and a silver ring set with an onyx on the pinky of the right hand.

The flesh looked too glossy, unless he was sweating. No, he sat too much at ease, gracefully, his posture perfect.

No.

Masters…

Not _that_ Masters.

"You got fifteen minutes, Mr. Masters," the guard announced.

Swinton sank onto the empty chair, facing the stranger across the tabletop.

Masters turned toward him: the too-neat hair texture, the over-glossiness of the skin, the steadiness of the cool gaze that met his.

It was that Masters.

Swinton looked scrawnier than he had the first time Joe had laid eyes on him, but the effect might have resulted from the baggy gray jumpsuit that hung from his skinny shoulders.

"We may know more about each other than we both expect," Joe said. "Your father was Henry Swinton, a marketing director for Cybertronics of New Jersey, your mother was named Monica. You had, for a brief time, a younger brother, a Mecha child called David."

"Yeah, that's all true. But what does it matter to you, machine?"

"I want to know for my own sake and the sake of others like me: why do you render harm to us?"

"It's none of your d-d business."

"It is everybody's business. You damaged property, if not individuals, to call us by the least terms."

"Y' know, I've read your Three Laws, and let me tell you one thing about them." He paused as if for effect.

"You were saying?"

"It's the stupidest piece of s- I ever read."

"You are entitled to you opinion, but there is a limit to where you may exert it. Why do you act so harshly toward my race?"

"I'm just trying to protect the existence of _my_ race against the inroads _your_ kind has made."

"You have no reason for such actions: we mean you no harm. Your intention does not justify the means."

"Don't tell me what to do, machine. You're gonna wish you didn't start all this rights and laws nonsense." He looked away. "Guard!"

The guard reentered and led Swint out of the room. Joe got up and went out. The warden met him in the front office.

"He made himself very uncooperative," Joe reported.

"He's been like that to everyone, lawyers, psychologists, you name it," the warden said. "Don't feel like he's singling you out, Masters."

"He has singled me out on account of my nature. He has chosen one course of action, would that he chooses another course."

He went out to the parking lot, where Rhiannon waited for him in her cruiser. She opened the passenger side door; he climbed in and sank into the seat.

"How'd it go?"

"He did not disclose half of the reasons for his actions," Joe said. He looked at her. "And yet, he disclosed who he is: he is the son of Monica Swinton, David's mommy."

"Good grief!" she murmured. "That explains all this."

"How does it explain his actions?"

"He's probably sore at Mechas because of David. If I understand the story, he probably got jealous of David, but when Monica discarded him, he probably got even more sore seeing his mother's grief."

"And I did not ease the burden of her grief."

"Why?"

"Monica sent for me to speak to me about David, since I had seen him last. She wept inconsolably, so I dared to console her in the only way I knew best at the time. It only threw salt on the wounds of her heart. I had not known emotion for very long, so I could not know then the implications of my actions."

"We all do dumb things when we're young," she said. She reached over and stroked his shoulder. "Don't feel bad. He's wrapped up in his own bundle if complaints. Only he can unwrap himself, if he ever wants to."

"It is such people of his line of thought who hinder the progress of the mission I have chosen." He looked into her face. "But they shall lose, for they shall never enjoy the peace that shall come when it succeeds."

"If it succeeds."

He clasped her hand. "You do me much good. You keep my idealism grounded in reality."

"If I didn't, your ideas wouldn't have the power to get off the ground."

"I do not follow…" _Grounded._ He smiled and laughed lightly at her word play as he reached over and hugged her.

Toward the end of a workday a month later, Galloway came up to Joe's office.

"What brings you up here to design?" Joe asked, looking up from the final design of a housemaid before sending the computer model up to construction.

"I haven't worked out all the bugs in our David, but the licensing info on him just came in," Galloway reported.

"And to whom does he rightly belong?"

"He's a discard like we suspected. A couple in Camden adopted him, but for some reason, the husband just left him in a park. Swinton swiped him and brought him this way. This all happened about seven months ago. I've been trying to contact the couple, but they haven't returned any of my calls, emails, smoke signals."

"And what then do you conclude?"

"Finder's keepers: he's yours, you and Rhiannon."

Joe's eyes seemed to grow misty. "She who could not have a child shall still enjoy motherhood through me."

"It'll be a long while before you can take him home; I still gotta figure out why he won't talk."

"It takes nine months of expectation for a child to be born; in patience we shall anticipate his repair."

To be continued…

Literary Easter Eggs:

"verbal communicator"—I meant the David in this chapter to be sort of a throw-back to the David of the Brian Aldiss short-story (actually more like a character sketch) "Supertoys Last All Summer Long" (The basis of "A.I.", along with its companion stories "Supertoys Last All Winter Long" and "Supertoys Last All Season"), who also has this problem. [Warning to Joe's Coterie of Satisfied Customers: one small problem with these stories: our green-eyed love machine is nowhere to be seen; Hey, Joe, where'd yah go?]

Painting during a hurricane—during the last hurricane that blew through my area, Hurricane Bob, 1990, I heard one story on the radio about some people keeping busy during the hurricane by painting the inside of their house. I've heard about people doing the same during snowstorms.

Birds above the window—during the same hurricane, a small flock of bedraggled sparrows found refuge on top of the wide frames around the outsides of our windows, under the eaves of our house. They stayed there until the storm passed the next day.


	5. Fatherhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

First the apology: I put this on the back burner MUCH too long, but I was trying to figure out what happens next. "One of THOSE in Our Midst!" plotted out fairly whole, so I focused on getting that out and out of my way so I could figure out what happens here. As of this typing, I haven't quite come up with a satisfactory ending for this, but perhaps the only way to get there is to Keep Writing it. I'm sorry if I kept anyone in suspense for too long, but hopefully this chapter will compensate. Special thanks goes to "Lady Neferankh" on the Yahoo! Group "AI_Fanfiction" for graciously prodding me to get back to this story. You ladyship's protestations have borne fruit.

Also, a fair warning to the slightly more cynical readers: this chapter decided to turn into a Christmas story of sorts (I know, "Christmas in OCTOBER? What about Halloween?), but a few darker elements creep in to keep it from getting too mushy.

Now the sillier note: It's not often that I dedicate my fics or chapters thereof to the stars of the film, etc. it's based on, but I'm making a special case here. And thus I am dedicating this chapter to the most beautiful man alive…we know who I mean…who has also proven that an incredibly sexy guy can also be a family man; in my book, it only enhances his sexiness (End of shameless drooling).

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I.

Chapter V

Fatherhood

Every day after that, at the lunch hour, Joe went to the cafeteria to meet up with Galloway and check in with him on the progress of David's repairs.

"I should have him ready by early winter," Galloway said.

"How far do the damages extend?" Joe asked.

"He has the usual mechanical complaints: a little corrosion on his spine, so I'll have to replace the affected sections. Fortunately, I know where I can get the right parts."

"What of his neural cube?"

"I got a programmer scanning it for anomalies and bugs: nothing yet. He has a few servos gone bad, and some sticky linkage in his pulleys. I thought Cybertronics scrapped the last of the line when Hobby died twenty-five years ago, but I guess he slipped through somehow."

"And what of his imprint sequence?"

"Well, uh," Galloway glanced around without looking up. "I know a girl who can get that for me, though it's gonna take some heavy lifting on her part trying to salvage it from the Cybertronics d-base."

"Ah," Joe said, with astute understanding. "And you say you can complete your work by early winter?"

"Finish date's projected for December 15th."

Joe clasped his hands in bated excitement, his eyes snapping with delight. "Then Rhiannon shall receive an image of the first gift of Christmas."

"She'll love him."

Joe held up one finger in warning. "Yet speak not a word of this to her. I wish this to remain a secret."

Galloway pressed his fingertips to his throat. "My voice synthesizer is on lockdown."

October passed into November. Hamner, the movie producer, sent Joe a copy of the screenplay for film version of the autobiography, _Different Constitution_ , which Joe examined carefully. To his relief, it was a fairly faithful adaptation. He had no cause for concern or complaint, but only praise. They had even worked in a bit at the very end in which he would appear.

About this same time, the Three Laws of Humanics Bill passed in the House by a narrow margin. Now it just had to go through the Senate and thence, if all went well, to the President's desk for final approval.

Swinton's case went to court two weeks before Thanksgiving. The only charges were thirty counts of "Theft and destruction of self-motivated property valued at or above 2,500 NB". Rhiannon wished the bill had gone through already, but defense would have argued that the crimes were committed before the laws had passed.

"And he cannot be retried for the same crime," Joe said, as Rhiannon described the first day of the trial that evening, as she had her dinner.

"No," she said. "But…the sentence could be commuted after the laws goes into effect, but only if he has his case appealed."

"What will his sentence be if he is convicted?"

"He'd be seeing about five to ten years prison time."

"And if the sentence were to be commuted?"

"I'm hoping he'd face the jail time for aggravated assault and armed battery with criminal intent: fifteen to twenty years, no parole."

"What of the maximum sentence? He damaged some of those unfortunates beyond repairing. What of the death penalty?"

She put down her fork and reached across the table to caress his wrist. "I wish we could have it that way, especially if someone like you got killed. But try convincing the judicial system."

His shoulders drooped gracefully. "One cannot have everything," he said. Brightening somewhat, he asked, "What term would they apply to this crime?"

"Instead of calling it homicide, they might call it Mechacide."

"And in which case they would rephrase manslaughter as Mechaslaughter."

"Stands to reason."

"And in all cases murder would be murder."

"Exactly.'

"And in that case endangerment of life and limb would transmogrify to…endangerment of function and fiber."

She looked at him playfully cross-eyed. "How do you come up with these? For someone who started out as a man-whore, you've got a hell of a logic processor."

He smiled modestly and shrugged one shoulder. "I was built to manifest more intelligence than the average Mecha man-whore."

A couple days later, Joe was called in as a witness for the prosecution. Defense refused to accept his testimony at first, even when the prosecution proved Joe's competence and ability to testify.

"Masters, you understand the meaning of perjury?" counsel for the defense asked him.

"Yes," Joe replied. "To perjure myself, I would speak a false statement after I had already sworn to give only true statements."

"And you realize this, perjury, carries a penalty."

"I am aware of the moral consequences of speaking falsehoods under oath, and I am aware of the state's penalty for this action. The consequences of breaking the moral law alone is sufficient to prevent me from overstepping the line."

"But why should we be asked to believe the testimony of a mere machine?"

"Objection!" the prosecutor called.

"Sustained," the judge ordered. "Proceed with the cross examination, Mr. Ludston." She added, "And only the cross-examination.

Joe kept his face relaxed. Rhiannon had prepared him for this: she'd warned him that Ludston was an aggressive lawyer with decidedly anti-Mecha leanings.

The next few questions were ordinary enough: what did he see in the barn Swinton was renting? Had he been there before? Was he aware of the recycling program Swinton was involved in?"

"Aren't you involved with promoting a bill that would declare Mechas equal to Orgas?" Ludston asked, leaning against the edge of the witness stand.

"Objection!"

Ludston ignored this and leaned closer to Joe. "Aren't you using this testimony against my client to further your agenda?"

Joe's thought was to reply that it could prove useful to promoting the ideal of the Three Laws of Humanics, but he knew he could not admit this to anyone by Rhiannon.

"Proceed to your next question, Mr. Ludston," Joe said.

"Mr. Ludston, stick to the present case," the judge ordered.

Ludston stuck his meaty face at Joe, "Isn't it true you're sleeping with one of the advocates for the Robotics Board?"

The gallery murmured noisily. Swinton smirked at Joe, who kept a straight face. MacAfee made a rude noise, while Slinger only heightened the look of cold disdain she had maintained throughout the trial. Joe looked at Ludston calmly, even humorously, as if to disarm him.

"This court will recess for ten minutes," the judge announced. She pointed at Ludston. "Counsel for the defense, I'll see you in my chambers. Now."

Joe met up with Rhiannon in the hallway. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I was afraid something like this would happen," she said. "You okay?"

"He has not disturbed my logic processors at least," Joe replied. "But the longer I looked upon him, the more he began to resemble Lord Johnson-Johnson."

Rhiannon grinned with only a trace of humor. "Y' know, I thought that myself, plus he's just as belligerent and self-serving."

"Imagine that the mastermind of the Flesh Fair had obtained his license to practice law—no, that is too horrible to imagine. Besides, the man had roughly half the brain tissue of an average Orga."

"I used to say, 'If you looked up "meathead" in an online dictionary, you'd find a web page about him'."

Joe's unsettled face relaxed. "That is a most appropriate statement."

"Actually, Allen Hobby filed suit against Johnson after the Haddonfield debacle. I read the trial dossier, transcripts, everything. It would make a great legal drama comedy."

"I can perceive the drama, but what would make such a case comic?"

"Johnson's responses under cross-examination by the counsel for prosecution for one thing; for another, counsel for defense was just as brilliant as his client. Fellow by the name of Dunluvin; they both sounded like a couple of thick micks."

When the session resumed, Ludston looked chastened, but it might only have been a scrim.

Prosecution cross-examined Joe much more rationally. Ludston made a few reasonable objections, but Joe sensed defense really wanted to make more.

The session adjourned for the day an hour later. In the hallway, on the way out, Joe and Rhiannon passed by Ludston and his clerk. Ludston eyed Rhiannon with his small eyes squinting in suspicion.

"So it's true, Jackford: you are sleeping with the fiberhead," Ludston sniped.

"I beg to correct you, Mr. Ludston," Joe cut in, holding up Rhiannon's left hand and showing his own. "She is my wife."

"Oh, and it's Masters now," Rhiannon added.

They rented a classic romantic comedy vid and watched it after her supper, cuddling on the couch, preparatory to a much more active session upstairs in their room.

Afterward, she held his head over her heart as she ran his hair through her fingers, a few strands at a time; since their marriage, he had had his default hair texture reset to natural, which gave him a slightly tousle-headed look, but it only enhanced the "ordinary guy" role he had assumed. Ordinary guy? Everyman? …EveryMecha?

"They say every dog has his day in court, so does every Mecha," she said.

"And this has not been a simple day," he said. He turned over on his back and lay apart from her, turned slightly away.

"Whazza matta?" she crooned, running her hand down his spine. "Don't tell me you're letting that jerk get you all frazzled."

"Perhaps I am letting his words disturb me. They are replaying constantly in my auditory matrix."

She slid over and held him from behind. "It's okay, fella."

"There are times when being able to recall every word you have ever heard is NOT an asset." He put his hand on her; she thought he would push her away, but instead he turned in her arms and held her closer.

Next day was a normal day like any other, bringing familiar things and sights and sounds, the comfort of colleagues and the routine of work, which put the memories of the day before into their proper place in his recall.

And he could check in with Galloway on the little fellow's progress. As a consolation, he replayed memories of David, the little one who saved his brain…

The Friday before Thanksgiving, the verdict was announced; Joe was present for that.

"Madame Forewoman, how do you find the defendant?" the judge asked.

"We find the defendants, Martin Harris Swinton, Richard Orson MacAfee and Kathryne Slinger, guilty of all counts of theft and destruction of self-motivated property valued at or above 2,500 NB," the forewoman replied.

Slinger and MacAfee kept their eyes dropped as the guards led them from the courtroom, but Swinton glared at Joe sidewise as he was led out.

 _If only the crime could be given its true name_ , Joe thought.

His concerns started to lift later that week. The Senate would be voting on the Three Laws Bill, otherwise known officially as the Mecha/Orga Relations Bill, after the Thanksgiving recess, and he had heard from some of Rhiannon's contacts in D.C. that the vote seemed tipped in its favor.

But other, less personal concerns came to drive out the residual woes he had following the insults at the trial.

Galloway met with Joe in the atrium at noon on Tuesday.

"How goes our secret endeavor?" Joe asked, somewhat conspiratorially.

"Lessee, I had trouble finding the right fuse for the nuclear warhead—no, just kidding. We took out his voice synthesizer and hooked it up to one of the mainframes to test it using one of our metas: it worked like a charm. But we put it back in him, and it wouldn't work. I've gone over every inch of his conductors between his speech centers and his voice box: nothing wrong. He won't let out a peep."

"Have you had a woman work with him?"

"Yeah, I've had Chauntay and Arabella work with him on his rehab, but he's terrified of them."

Joe's brows gathered. "He is terrified of them?"

"Yeah, he sees anything with a light voice wearing a smock and he gets all jittery. But he's fine with me and Salminen and Ghiarov."

"That sounds so very strange."

"It's more 'n strange, it's downright _creepy_. He doesn't let out a peep, not a whimper, not a laugh, not a word."

"Does the problem lie with his programming?"

"'Tain't that neither. Milford, from Programming says it's clean, there's the usual idiosyncrasies you finding David models, but nothing alarming."

"You are capable people, you and your techs can disclose the problem and solve it."

Galloway shrugged humbly. "We'll do our best: we always do."

"I know that you do," Joe said.

Rhiannon had watched them from the other side of the atrium. Joe hadn't sat with her at lunch lately, and she'd gotten a little curious about this. She couldn't hear what they said, but she guessed it had something to do with one of their reconstruction jobs. And there was something deliciously conspiratorial about their mannerisms, especially Joe's. She felt like a little girl overhearing her parents talking about Christmas shopping.

They went to the Zipeses for Thanksgiving dinner. A few close friends and their families had gathered as they had every year: Rhiannon's cousin Darrell and his wife, who worked in advertising at Companionates, Galloway and his cousin and her husband and their son, and several others. Most of the women helped Narsie in the kitchen with the last minute preparations, while most of the men and the older kids played touch football in the backyard. Joe and Rhiannon watched them from the back porch, with Sina sitting curled up on Joe's lap, which had increasingly become her favorite place to be when Joe and Rhiannon came over.

Narsie came out with her great-great-grandmother's brass dinner bell in hand; just about to ring it, she paused and looked down to the second step, where Joe sat with her daughter on his lap, curled up, half asleep, Joe's hand resting protectively on the little girl's shoulders. Narsie almost didn't ring the bell just then, but Joe looked up at her with an expectant twist of a smile.

After dinner, while the women divided up the leftovers and set the dishes to wash, Galloway met with Joe in the back hallway of the house, taking a business-size envelope out of his shirt pocket.

"Zara the hacker I know brought this up to me this morning,' Galloway said.

"So she obtained the imprint protocol?" Joe asked, taking the envelope and opening it to see it.

"She done did," Galloway said.

Joe put the envelope into his shirt pocket. "Now I have one more thing for which to be thankful."

Rhiannon, looking for Joe, came upon him with Galloway in the back hallway, both talking to each other in low voices. She thought she overheard something about an imprint protocol, but she wasn't sure. She hid a smile in her hand and tiptoed away as Joe put something in an envelope into his shirt pocket, but she wasn't quick enough: he glanced in her direction.

A week later, Rhiannon sat twisting a strand of her hair as she sat in the cafeteria, reading her Christmas shopping list over her lunch.

Ninon, one of the legal clerks, came and sat across from her at the same table.

"Hey, uh, that seat is taken," Rhiannon said.

Ninon looked around. "I don't see him anywhere."

"He'll be along any minute now."

"What you got there?"

"Oh, my Christmas shopping list. I've got a few ideas for everyone else, but I'm still trying to come up with something for Joe. That's one of the very few ways he's no different from a flesh and blood man: he can be hard to buy for."

"The beer of the month won't work: that's what I'm getting my brother-in-law."

Rhiannon grinned. "I gave Joe the holiday print boxer shorts of the month last year."

"Oooohh! That must have put him in uppity mode."

"It did, at first, but then he thought it was amusing."

"Got any idea what he's getting you?"

"I dunno," she fibbed. "Whatever he has in mind, he's been really secretive about it."

"You sure that's what he's up to and he isn't having an affair? Remember what he used to be."

"Nah, he's imprinted. He might get tempted, but he won't stray."

But then, next day, something happened that made her set aside the head scratching over her list.

She was proofing a brief when her computer chimed that she had a new message. She opened her inbox.

From: jmasters .com

To: rj_masters .com

Subject: Asimov and Masters

Ree—

Please read this page now:

http:/ ..

Joe

She opened the link and found the headline:

Mecha/Orga Relations Bill Passes Senate by Margin of 77-23.

She breathed deeply and offered a quick prayer of thanksgiving. Now it just had to get past the Oval Office, and President Rainier Sevigny was somewhat ambivalent about Mecha rights.

At the end of the day, she met Joe on the mezzanine that communicated between Legal and Design. She could see he had been crying: damp streaks showed on his cheeks. They walked into each other's arms joyfully for a long, wondrous while. Then he let her go.

"It is not over: it is but the beginning," he said, wisely.

December fifteenth, Rhiannon still hadn't come up with a present for Joe, and she had less than ten days to decide. But it soon hardly mattered: They both got a much better present."

CNN broadcasted at three that afternoon a tape of the President signing the Mecha/Orga Relations Bill into law. The department directors and several interested persons—including Rhiannon and Joe—watched it on portable television in Lutwyn's office.

Through the anchor's prepared commentary, Joe sat calm but intent, his body poised in his chair, back straight, face serene, but hopeful, his eyes just starting to smolder with anticipation. Rhiannon wondered if his face had borne the same look of disciplined arousal when he had awaited a hesitant client to give in.

As the image played out, as they watched the President sign the bill and affix it with the official seal, a cheer rose from everyone in the room. Directors and personnel clapped and hugged each other. Rhiannon jumped up from her seat, letting out a triumphant scream.

She turned to Joe, who had turned to her. They embraced, their heartbeats hammering against each other. They separated enough to kiss, hard, open-mouthed, Joe leaning over her.

They celebrated the following Saturday night. Lutwyn hired a private dining room at the Scranton Ritz-Carlton and arranged a dinner party for the directors and their spouses, with Joe and Rhiannon as the guests of honor.

In the midst of it, Lutwyn stood up, wine glass in hand.

"One reason brings us together tonight: we're celebrating the passing of the Mecha/Orga Relations Bill into federal law. But we must remember and set in our minds and at our fingertips that it was not an Orga who first devised the principles that went into this law to protect Mechas from the ignorant of Orga society. It was one of this rejected class, who has suffered greatly at the hands of the ignorant, who has sought only to be accepted by Orgakind and who yet seeks this same acceptance for his species. Now we can call him a man in full. Raise your glasses to him, folks: to Joe Masters."

Joe dropped his gaze modestly to his folded hands on the gilt back of his turned-around chair.

Rhiannon, sitting on his right, saw a light pink flush creep over his cheeks, up to his smooth brow. She put a hand on his arm. He looked at her as if gathering courage, and stood up to receive the adulation.

"Speech! Speech!" someone, a woman, yelled.

The flush on Joe's face had spread down his neck and under his collar. "And in the immortal words of the Cowardly Lion in _The Wizard of Oz_ , 'Shucks, fellas, I'm speechless'." The gathering laughed. When they had settled down, he added, "I would like to remind you that none of this would be possible were it not for one small Mecha, a child who was not a child, by the name of David. With your gracious permission, I would like us all to take but a moment of silence in memory of him."

The gathering bent their heads respectfully.

 _Did you every find your Blue Fairy?_ he wondered.

As the party broke up a few hours later, Rhiannon went up to the room she and Joe had reserved for a few hours. Before he went up to his wife, Joe took Galloway aside before his friend went home.

"As you know, Christmas is but a few days away," Joe said. "How go the repairs?"

"He'll be all set in a day or two," Galloway said. "I've had to keep him out of sight of the techs: they keep wanting to play with him. But I think he really wants to see you: he keeps looking around like he's expecting someone."

"I shall be up to visit him tomorrow. But now I must see to a beautiful African princess."

"Ooh, celebrating in grand style!" Galloway cried, poking his arm. "I better let you go then."

Joe smiled astutely. "Mustn't keep milady waiting."

On his way to the room where Rhiannon awaited him, Joe paused before a mirror in the hallway, more to look at himself than to preen himself.

Since his construction, he had been a man philosophically, but he realized that he was now a man legally. Serin would be proud of what he had accomplished for his kind.

Serin…she still held a bright place in his "heart", but the brightness of Rhiannon's name and image eclipsed its paler light.

He passed his palm over his hair as it shifted, going back to the oiled back look of the days of old when he was first made new. Come the next anniversary of his inception, his "build-day" as it were, he would be sixty-five, but he didn't look a day over twenty-five. In many ways he was not the Mecha he had been. He had settled down in a domestic, monogamous situation, but he would always be the sunset gent he had been built to be. He had changed, and all because of a little Mecha named David.

Things would change again, soon, on account of another little Mecha, also named David.

But the time had come to revel for a moment in the joy of success, to rejoice that the time had come when his kind could now seek shelter and protection from the ignorant, and to share this joy with the one lady who had stood by him through all his endeavors for this purpose.

Flipping back the skirts of his jacket with the rakish insouciance of the old days, he turned and half-swaggered, half danced to the door of the suite where she awaited him.

Next day, late in the afternoon, Joe got a message from Galloway.

From: .com

To: .com

Subject: He needs a daddy.

David's ready to go home. 'Nuff said.

G.

Joe went up to repairs, where he found a group of techs (mostly women) kneeling and sitting on the floor around a large floor cabinet with its doors ajar, talking to it as if trying to coax a small animal or a frightened child out of it.

Galloway got up from the floor when Joe approached. "We just powered him up. He's been down quite a bit, which might explain why his behavior."

"Why so? What has he done?"

"For one thing, he hid in that cabinet."

"Please, let me speak to him. He is familiar with me."

Joe got down on the floor; the others got up, giving him his space.

A few toys lay scattered on the floor, including a small green ball flecked with red, of a crinkly acrylic plastic. Joe took the ball and rolled it across the floor toward the cabinet, so that it bumped off the short leg of the cabinet and started to roll back toward him. He retrieved it.

"David? What are you doing?" No answer. "Where are you hiding, little one?" He rolled the ball back, bouncing it off the leg of the cabinet. The door squeaked open a crack. "Daaavid, come on out." No response. "Must I play with the ball myself? It is more than lonesome this way." The door creaked open wider. "Where is that little fellow?"

Joe retrieved the ball and rolled it back to the cabinet. A hand poked out of the cabinet and caught the ball, then pawed it back to Joe, who caught it.

"Ah, a hand emerged from that cabinet. If there is a hand, there must be someone attached to it." Joe rolled the ball back.

The hand caught the ball; the door opened wide enough that a small, shadowy form could be seen inside. David crept out and sat on the edge of the cabinet. He rolled the ball back to Joe.

"Oh, there IS someone in that cabinet, and I can see him," Joe said, as he caught the ball. He rolled it so that it stopped a foot away from David. The little fellow stared at the ball as if it were a hundred feet away. He slid off the edge of the cabinet and got down on the floor to poke the ball back.

Joe rolled it to the middle of the floor this time. David crept out to get it, which brought him a little closer to Joe in order to scoot the ball back.

"You like this little game…here it comes back to you." David caught it one hand and smiled, thinly, but he was smiling.

Joe held out his hands, waiting. David tossed it to him.

"Ah, a good throw, but here, can you catch?" he tossed it back gently. The little one caught it and edged closer to Joe.

Soon they sat so close they were almost passing the ball back and forth.

Finally, David crept into Joe's lap and hugged him around the neck. Joe held him gently, a serene smile passing over his face.

They sat this way for a while, then Joe held him away. "I have to go now, I have my work to do. But I shall come back to you tomorrow." David's face went slack with worry, but Joe stroked his hair. David smiled, letting him go.

Next day, during lunch, Joe went back to repairs for another "bonding session" with David. He found the little fellow busily building a wall with colored blocks. When David saw him, he jumped up and scurried to meet him, so quickly he knocked down part of the wall. David looked at the scattered blocks, then looked up at a female tech who sat nearby, watching. David's lower lip trembled.

"It's all right, David," Joe said. "Come, shall we build up this wall again?" David smiled at this and got down to collect the scattered blocks.

After a little while, David started glancing up at Joe with a quizzical pucker between his brows, as if trying to place who the older Mecha was.

"I'm afraid that I have you at a disadvantage: I know your name, but you do not know mine. You may call me Joe," he almost added, 'But someday you might call me your father,' but he overrode that. The little fellow reached up with one hand and touched Joe's cheek. "Do you like that name?" The little one bobbed his head, smiling and hugged Joe with both arms. Joe hugged him back and let the little one nestle there for a while. "I think you and I shall get along splendidly."

Next day after work, Joe went with Galloway to do a little Christmas shopping; Rhiannon had the same idea:

In the big shopping mall near Scranton, they spotted Rhiannon coming out of a children's clothing store on the ground floor level (they were on the top level); she didn't have any bags from it.

"She must be engaging in a little wishful thinking," Joe observed. "Let's make her wishes come true."

"Yeah, maybe you can figure out exactly what she was looking at," Galloway suggested.

Joe reset his olfactory sensors on "high" and "exclusive". He traced Rhiannon's scent to several items: a blue sweater set with a matching stocking hat and mittens, several pairs of corduroy pants, a few jerseys and flannel shirts.

"You getting her anything else besides, y' know," Galloway asked on their way out.

"I have a few other presents in mind for her: an emerald bracelet she had her eye on, a set of Dickens."

"Good, always a good idea to give a few extras."

They spotted Rhiannon again, watching the kids in the line to Santa's winter castle. Next year…

Joe bought a few other odds and ends: a coffee of the month subscription for Astarte, a box of Godiva chocolate for the Zipeses.

"Anything for Sokhar the annoying?" Galloway asked.

"As a matter of fact, I did," Joe said, wryly.

They went into a stationary store where Joe got a mouse-pad with mice on it.

Galloway drove Joe home, agreeing to hide the "kid stuff" at his house.

"Of course that was not all my shopping," Joe said. "He will need a few toys."

"Uh-oh, don't take me along if you're doing toy shopping, or we'll be there all night," Galloway warned.

"Perhaps then you could help me pick out the best."

Galloway wasn't kidding: Joe had a few ideas he'd found online, but every time he looked around for Galloway, his friend was testing the demo models of Supertoy dinosaurs and aliens—and even some of the "girly" Supertoys, like a yipping pink poodle on a leash or a purple kitten.

They settled on a set of building blocks and a few model cars and trucks—Joe personally selected a model amphibicopter.

"You spoke the truth: this will be the last time in which I shop for David in your company," Joe said to Galloway with gleeful coldness, once they were back in the cruiser.

Joe walked from the corner of their street down the slope to their house. A light snow had started to fall, settling on his hair and the shoulders of his black ankle-length overcoat. The temperature had dropped considerably, and he could just sense the chill nibbling gently at his skin. The snow crunched and squeaked underfoot as he walked along the sidewalk, admiring the lights on and in the houses, the glowing animated figures of Santas and snowmen and angels in the yards, the electric menorah in the Jablonsky's front window. He hummed holiday songs half aloud, half to himself, "Silent Night" and "Ma'oz Tsur" and a jazzy rendition of "O Christmas Tree" and the main melody of "Wolcum Yole" from Britten's "Ceremony of Carols".

They had a few modest white lights on the bushes in front of their house and some glowing ornaments hung from the magnolia tree on the front lawn, but as yet they had not put up their indoor Christmas tree. He decided this was the night to put it up.

He found Rhiannon had the same idea: she was upstairs in the attic, struggling to get their artificial Douglas Fir down.

"Here, let me take that for you," he said, taking the box onto his shoulder.

"Thanks," she said.

They finished decorating it about midnight, then they shut off the room lights and let the tree "glow" as Rhiannon loved to call it. They sat together at the foot of the tree, their arms about each other.

Rhiannon giggled.

"What?" Joe asked. "Did something amuse you?"

"You last year with the mistletoe at the Zipeses Christmas party last year."

"In which case, I could laugh about you and Narsie's cousin and Galloway popping the popping corn in the Zipeses' sauna."

"Well, I could diss you about New Year's Eve last year."

"Why, what did I do?"

"You don't remember? You wanted to know what it was like to be drunk, so Galloway and his stupid friend took you out and beat you up so your conductors would get all tangled every which way. After that you were staggering around singing Beatles' songs at the top of your voice."

"I believe I recall Galloway not thinking his idea had been so brilliant after he had to untangle my wiring in the morning of the next day."

"Good, I hope that cures you of repeating the same stunt this year…good thing we were staying overnight at the Zipeses', then all Lutwyn and I had to do was steer you upstairs to the spare room and shut you down."

She nibbled his ear. "So…what you ge' me fo' C-Day?" she asked in her fake ghetto mama voice.

He looked at her from under lowered eyelids and smiled mysteriously. "I cannot tell you; to do so would spoil the surprise."

"Can it top the gift you gave me Christmas night last year?"

"Do you mean when I wrapped myself up in the gift wrapping paper?"

"Yeah."

He caressed the inside of her thigh. "Yes, it will top even that."

They cuddled for a while beneath the tree. Then they shut out the lights for the night and went to bed.

Christmas eve, after service at "Cousin Rev's" church, they went straight home, at Joe's insistence; Rhiannon wanted to go to her stepsister's house for a while, but Joe was firm with her.

"There is one Christmas present you will wish to see right away," he said.

"It better be good," she replied, a little miffed.

Once they got to their door and he had unlocked it, Joe took the black silk scarf he wore about his neck and tied it around her eyes.

"What is this about?" she asked.

"I only want you to be surprised," he said, taking her hands and leading her into the house.

He steered her into the living room, then he took the scarf from her eyes.

The tree glowed in the shadowy room, painting the ceiling with soft pastel washes of light. The gas fire in the fireplace burned, filling the room with a cheerful warmth.

A small form sat curled up on the couch, a little boy clad in a white jersey, black corduroy pants and a red vest. He looked up at them with his blue eyes wide open.

"David?" Joe said.

The little one bounced up and ran to him, grinning, putting his arms up to be hugged. Joe knelt to his level and gathered him in, close to his heart.

"David, there's someone I want you to meet." He turned the little one to Rhiannon. "This is Rhiannon."

David looked up at her warily, even as she knelt down to his level.

"Hello, David," she said. "Can I give you a hug?"

The little one separated from Joe and let her hug him. David hugged her back, but even Joe sense something was lacking in this gesture.

Joe rose and tiptoed out of the room, giving them their space together.

When he came back from hanging up his coat, Joe found them as he had left them. Rhiannon patted the little one's shoulders as she said something that sounded like, "I'll be right back."

She got up and joined Joe in the hallway, tears of delight in her eyes. He led her upstairs to their room.

"Now you know what has occupied my attention for so many days and weeks," he said.

"You know, I had an idea of what you and Galloway were up to, but I was not going to let on," she said, grinning wickedly.

"Do you like him?"

"No, I love him already. Thank you." She hugged him around the neck.

"The first gift of Christmas," he said, holding her away.

"The best gift of all seasons," she added, Pulling his face closer and kissing him.

He let her go lingeringly and opening the top drawer of his bureau, took out a large red envelope, which he handed to her. She took it and opened it to find a Christmas card in which he had tucked the imprint protocol papers.

"Don't do this to me," she groaned. "I'll be imprinting him first thing in the morning. No, I'll be good and give him a week to adjust to us and our routine."

Leaving the papers on the bureau, she went to the linen closet and got out a big, rainbow-colored afghan, which she carried downstairs with her.

She found David exactly where she had left him, sitting in the armchair, looking up at the tree.

"We don't have a room for you yet, but we'll get you everything you need the day after tomorrow. But here's a blanket my grandma crocheted for me." She spread the blanket over him and tucked it in. He smiled up at her thinly.

She leaned down to kiss him. His smile vanished and he shrank back from her.

"What? I'm not gonna hurt you." But she decided not to press the issue. He needed his space in which to get used to everything.

She patted his head and switched out the lights on the tree.

She went upstairs and found Joe had already got into bed, where he waited for her.

"Day after Christmas we'll have to do some major shopping, get him a bedroom set, that sort of thing," she said.

"Galloway and I have already bought a few things for him, but you should be allowed the luxury of shopping for him," he said.

"He can have the spare room…gosh."

"What?"

"Oh, I just feel a little bad having him sleep, I mean, stay in the living room."

"He will have his own room soon enough."

But while Rhiannon slept, Joe thought of the little one alone in the night.

He got up and tiptoed downstairs to the living room. The little one looked up at Joe as he knelt beside the couch.

"It is not right to leave you here alone," Joe said. "Would you mind it were I to bring you upstairs?"

David shook his head. Joe gathered the little one up, afghan and all, and carried him upstairs.

Joe laid David in their bed, next to Rhiannon and got in next to him, so that David lay sandwiched between them.

Next morning, when Rhiannon woke up, she felt something next to her, too small to be Joe. She turned over and opened her eyes.

David lay beside her, with Joe on the other side of him, smiling at her over the little one's head with gently impish delight in his eye.

"Hey, how'd he get up here?" she asked

"It did not seem right to leave him by his lone self," Joe said.

She noticed, however, that the little one kept a cautious, almost allergic distance from her.

Galloway came over later that morning bearing gifts for them. Rhiannon had her digital camera read to take pictures of David unwrapping the gaily-wrapped boxes with his name on them. He seemed a little reticent at first, but at a gentle look from Joe, David set to work unwrapping the packages.

"The three of you look like you were made for each other," Galloway said with a broad grin.

"Thanks for taking such good care of him," she said.

"Hey, it's my way of helping the movement," he said with a nonchalant shrug.

"What do we owe you?"

"Nothing," Galloway said. "I fixed him up on my own time and money and love."

That evening, they went to the Zipeses house for a couple hours. Sina was still up, showing off her purple-furred Teddy Supertoy, named Terry, which trundled after her wherever she went. But when she saw David, her eyes got big with curiosity.

"Whose little boy is you?" she asked.

"He's ours," Rhiannon said. "His name is David. We just adopted him: I'm going to be his mommy and Uncle Joe is going to be his daddy."

"Can you talk?" Sina asked. David looked at her with large eyes.

"Sina, maybe he's shy," chirped Terry.

"You talk when you wanna," Sina said. She felt David's hands and face. He pulled away a little, but his wariness gave way to curiosity. Sina looked from his face to Joe's and back to David's.

"He's different; he's like Uncle Joe." She said this with the acceptance of a child, unprejudiced.

Later, when they came home, Joe carried David upstairs to their room, the little one resting his head on his shoulder.

"Sina took to him like a duck to water," Rhiannon said.

"She will be a good friend for him," Joe said, sitting David on the bench outside their door. "Do you agree, David?"

David gave him a quiet smile and nodded.

"He can communicate, he's just not using words yet," Rhiannon said.

When they were ready for bed, Joe brought David into their room. Rhiannon got down on her knees to help David into his pajamas, but the little one suddenly jerked away from her and clung to Joe.

"What is it? I'm not gonna hurt you," Rhiannon said, trying to reach for David again. The little one hid himself behind Joe, clinging to the older Mecha's hand.

"Perhaps I should undress him," Joe said.

"Okay," Rhiannon relented.

Next day, they took advantage of the after-Christmas sales and went shopping for a bedroom set for David (Galloway loaned them his vancruiser) as well as a few other things for him. They decided on a cozy bed with a canopy lit with blue fiber optic cabling.

That evening, Joe and Rhiannon assembled the furniture in the spare room they had converted into a room for David.

"We'll have to redo the room," she said. "Paint the walls, find new rugs, something nice and colorful."

"In which case I shall help you," Joe said. "But there is an important question I must ask you."

"Shoot."

"Shall you continue working?"

"I'm going to downsize a bit and work from home," she said. "I want to be David's mom, not just his imprinter."

"If I could tell you what to do, this would be what I would say. But it is yours to decide."

"I've already decided." She looked toward the doorway.

David stood there, peeking around the doorjamb at them, just one eye and some light brown hair visible.

"David, your room's all ready—for now," she said. "You want to come in and see it?"

David stepped into the room, gingerly, looking around. Then after a minute or two, he smiled his little boy smile.

"He likes what he sees," Joe observed.

The day before New Year's Eve, Rhiannon finalized her decision to downsize; she brought David to the Zipeses' house during the days before. Rahmer, the head of the legal department wasn't too thrilled with her decision.

"The thing's only a Mecha," he insisted as she cleared her desk.

"He isn't _only_ a Mecha: he's my son, Joe's son," she said. "Galloway and his team went to a lot of trouble with his repairs."

"But that's just it: he's no different than the rest of them. He's a machine."

She slammed a drawer shut and stood up to her full height.

"He's a little boy; he's just made of different materials. Besides, we're biological machines ourselves."

They picked David up from the Zipeses on the way home. Rhiannon decided her supper could wait a little while: she had something important to do.

While Joe sat with David in the living room, Rhiannon went upstairs and got the envelope with the imprinting papers.

When she returned, she drew in a long breath as she knelt down before David. He didn't draw away from her as he had the past few days, but he kept a leery eye on her.

"Okay," she started. _I can do this_ , she told herself. "David, I'm going to read off a few words; you have to listen to me while I read them."

Joe put a hand on her shoulder as she reached up to David's forehead; she felt the switch under the dermis, lower than it had been on Joe. She pressed it, then she reached behind David's neck. As she pressed the trigger there, the leery look did not vanish, but he looked into her eyes.

"Cinnabar…

"Sarabande…

"Paradigm…

"Derivate…

"Harpsichord…

"Digitize…

"Transparent…

"Rhiannon…David…Rhiannon."

The look of wary concern had vanished. She looked deep into David's face, seeking a change. Imprinting Joe had been one thing, but David was an entirely different creature.

She started to get up, but David looked up to her, holding up his arms to her. She leaned down to him got down to his level, into his little embrace. She folded him to her heart, cuddling him.

Joe had decided to imprint David that night, but he overrode the decision, setting it aside for another time: mother and son needed to bond.

Would he ever speak?

But he knew he could not neglect this most important duty to this little one. He gave them an hour, then he returned to the living room.

He found them sitting on the couch, Rhiannon reading aloud to her son. Joe sat down on the floor, just inside the doorway, listening in silence, not wishing to interrupt or intrude.

When she had finished, Rhiannon set the book aside; she looked up at Joe, their eyes meeting across the room.

"Now it is my turn," he said, rising as she rose. She took the imprint protocol sheet from her pocket and handed it to him. He sensed her fingers tremble as she did so; she stepped away.

Joe knelt before David, who still sat on the couch, looking up at Joe with curiosity.

Joe scanned the imprint sheet.

 **Caution! Do not initiate imprinting if you have any doubts about your feelings.**

He felt calm determination flowing through him, and yet the note of uncertainty trembled just on the verge of sensation. He knew he had been imprinted; he knew this same process bound him to Rhiannon. And now he was about to bind David to him.

"David, there are seven special words I must read to you. Can you listen to me?" he asked.

David nodded, a slight smile on his face.

Joe reached up to David's brow, feeling the structure under the skin, sensing the tiny switch. He pressed in and up, as one did with all internal switches. He reached behind David's neck and pressed the switch there.

"Cinnabar…

"Sarabande…

"Paradigm…

"Derivate…

"Harpsichord…

"Digitize…

"Transparent…

"Joe…David…Joe."

He retracted his hand from the switch. He watched David, gauging the response.

David grinned up at him and hopped off the couch, right into Joe's lap, hugging him so hard he bowled Joe over. The imprint papers went flying.

Joe looked up at Rhiannon and found her laughing, her hand over her mouth. She got down on the floor and hugged the both of them.

They nestled and wrestled together, laughing, David's grin getting bigger…one family together.

Next day, Rhiannon set up her home office. David kept nearby her, drawing with the crayons she gave him on a big sketchpad Joe had got for him.

She also got something in a hatbox down from the attic that had been up there much too long, since she'd suffered at the hands of her ex-fiancé, nearly ten years before she met Joe. She hoped it still worked…

Joe came home around three in the afternoon; they were going to the Zipeses for their annual New Year's Eve party.

He approached the open door to Rhiannon's study, quietly, barely letting his heels down, and peered in so as not to be seen.

She sat at her desk, typing something, with David sitting on the floor close by, drawing what looked like a pair of arms cradling a bird.

She must have heard him: she glanced up slightly without raising her head, but she pretended not to notice.

Joe let down the secrecy and stepped into the doorway. He knocked softly on the doorjamb. "May I come in?"

She looked up with innocent impishness in her eyes. "The door's open." He stepped into the room and approached her

"How goes the new location?" Joe asked, his hand on her shoulder.

"It's great; I've got the world's shortest commute now," she said, turning her face up to him. He leaned down to kiss her.

As he did so, David bounced up and hugged Joe around the waist, nestling his head into Joe's flank. Joe let go of Rhiannon and reached down to pat David on the shoulder and hug him with one arm.

"Hello, David." His son turned his face up to him with a big smile.

"So how goes the new venture?" Joe asked.

"I've got everything set up, I just have to see how it pans out. Of course I'll have to go out for case work and for hearings and such, but I think it's gonna work."

Joe looked down at the drawings scattered on the floor. "And I see David has set himself to work as well." He knelt down to study some of the drawings. "He shows signs of great talent."

"He gets that from you side of the family," Rhiannon said. Joe playfully cuffed her arm.

While Joe changed for the evening, Rhiannon set about preparing David's surprise.

Rhiannon brought the hatbox into David's room. She sat down on the foot of the bed beside him. "Here's something I had when I was little; I want you to have it now."

She lifted the lid and took out a black-furred Teddy. She twisted and pushed in the activation switch on its bottom. The little animal twitched its arms and legs. Its head moved and it opened its mouth in little growling yawn. She set the bear on its feet between them.

"David, this is Andy."

David smiled thinly at the little bear.

"Hello, David," Andy said in a furry voice.

David looked up at Rhiannon. His lower lip trembled, but he opened his mouth.

"What do I have to do to get Andy?" he asked.

Rhiannon almost stared. He could talk! But her lawyer's horse sense kicked in and she kept her cool. "Nothing, David. He's yours."

"Nothing?" David asked, incredulous.

"No," she said. "I'll let you two get to know each other." She got up and went to her room, trying not to run.

She found Joe buttoning on one of his best shirts before the full-length mirror in their room. She shut the door behind her.

"Joe, he just talked: David just talked for the first time," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

He turned to her, his face beaming. "Then he is fully functional, and he is adjusting to you."

"That's not all," she said and went on to describe what had transpired in David's room. He looked so worried, like I was going to hurt him."

Joe cocked his head, his gaze tracking to the floor, his face thoughtful. After a moment, he looked up at her.

"It sounds as if all is not right with his emotions. I think he must have come to some harm, somewhere."

"Do you know anything about his last imprinter?"

"Galloway and I have sought to contact them, but they would not reply to us."

She found her planner on her dresser and made a note in it the day after New Year's Day. "I know a robo-psychologist we might ask for counseling for him. She's really good; you'd like her because she really understands Mechas."

"Perhaps she could help me as well."

"You? Why?"

He wagged his head, a pensive look in his eye. "I have my troubled moments which overwhelm me, but I hide them well: perhaps one might say too well."

"You can talk to me about them."

"Now is not the time, and I would not wish to burden you with my petty woes. And I would like very much to see her methods at work on a Mecha, as a test, before I let her work with David."

"Good thinking: 'What's good for the gander is good for the goose', or in this case the gosling."

"And yet they both have different, though equitable needs," he said, with a gently suggestive smile. His face relaxed. "And if she can help David, perhaps she can aid in the endeavor."

To be continued…

Afterword:

I'm going to try to go semi-full time writing this, to make up for lost time, so keep watching for new chapters. Hope still thrives!

Literary Easter Eggs:

"The first gift of Christmas"—Okay, I admit it: I lifted this from Richard Paul Evans's _The Christmas Box_ , which is one of my favorite Christmas books (Next to _A Christmas Carol_ by Charles Dickens, and _Skipping Christmas_ by John Grisham.).

Rhiannon overhearing Joe and Galloway about the imprint papers—Drawn from real life: Two Christmases ago, my dad and I got a light-up plastic Nativity scene for our yard as a Christmas eve surprise for my mother, and we built the stable for it the afternoon of Thanksgiving. My mother came out on the deck to let us know when supper was ready, and she kind of found out what we were up to (Like Rhiannon, she didn't let on that she did.)

The jazzy version of "O Christmas Tree"—Probably Vince Guaraldi's version which he did for the 1965 TV special "A Charlie Brown Christmas" which I was listening to as I drafted this chapter; I imagine Joe would be drawn to it for its unusual rhythms. Also, I imagine him having a special place in his processors for the music of Benjamin Britten for its delicacy and innocent sensuality.

popping the popcorn in the sauna—stole this wholesale from "Santa's Funniest Moments", a really crazy Christmas special based on the principle of "America's Funniest Home Videos", only it was wall-to-wall Christmas shenanigans. There was one bit with three guys finding a quick and hysterical way to pop popcorn: in an indoor sauna.

"you wanted to know what it was like to be drunk…"—Another wholesale theft, this time it was a device I had seen used in two comic "A.I." fictions, King Raisin's "Artificial Flame" and Sapphire Rose's "Day After Day". I just thought it was a great, goofy idea, plus the image of Joe singing Beatles' songs in his pseudo-inebriated state came to me as I was listening to the "Golden Oldies" station and they were doing wall-to-wall Beatles' songs since Paul McCartney was in town. (No, it was NOT "Hey, Jude", it was "All Together Now")

"…painting the ceiling…"—I've noticed this phenomenon year after year whenever the lights on our Christmas tree are on and the room lights are off, and then I heard a similar metaphor used in the text of "Somewhere in my Mem'ry", the song John Williams wrote for his film score for _Home Alone_ (Soundtrack tie-in/cross-reference: John Williams did the score for "A.I.".)


	6. Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

I had every intention to get this up last week, but I had a hard time finishing it, what with one thing and another, plus I was slightly exhausted from getting the last chapter of "One of THOSE in our Midst!" up and writing/posting the first chapter of "The Shadows Between the Neon" along with another fiction on the Yahoo! Group "AI_Fanfiction". Last of my excuses is that I got hooked reading Stephen King's _'Salem's Lot_ (I always read horror novels in October, part of getting psyched up for Halloween) and I'm trying to keep from moving on to _The Shining_ (Not surprising that I should choose that one: Stanley Kubrick did the movie version of it). But…I managed to get this out anyway. Brief warning: this chapter contains a strong reference to child abuse of the worst variety; my family background has been blackened with this horror, so in some ways, this is a form of creative writing therapy. I kept it within the PG-13 range, but if you think it went over into R rated territory, please let me know. Thanks!

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I also don't own the Beatles' song "When I'm Sixty-Four".

VI: Healing

Rhiannon called her college chum call the next morning; Cal had her office in Scranton, but there was no telling Joe might decide to go up there later that afternoon.

"Hello, Calla Sununu speaking."

"Hiya, Cal, it's me, Rhiannon."

"Ree, baby, how you been?"

"Great, busy as usual. I'm working from home now."

"Oh, yeah, I heard you'd adopted the little fellow."

"How'd you find that out?"

"I heard from Gilbert Galloway at Companionates."

"That's kind of what I called about. David's been acting rather odd, so I was going to call to make an appointment with you for him."

"You were 'going to'? That doesn't sound quite like you."

"Well, you see, Joe wanted to test the waters a little before we brought David in, so I was calling just to give you a fair warning."

"Oh? Is he having any difficulties?"

"If he is, he isn't telling me much about it."

"Okay, thanks for the heads up."

"I have a brief to proof, so I'd better get going."

"Hug David for me."

"I will."

About four o'clock, Sheila, Calla's secretary came into Calla's office.

"Calla, there is a young gentleman in the waiting room who wishes to speak to you," she said, "He says his name is Masters."

"Tell him I'll be out in a moment," Calla said.

She waited until Sheila had gone, then she went out to the waiting room.

She paused, just in the doorway to take a look.

A tall young man stood by the window, looking out to the snowy yard outside, his hands cupped one inside the other behind his back. She realized he wasn't quite as tall as she thought: his wire-thin figure and his well-tailored gray-black pinstripe suit gave him an illusion of being taller than he was. _Ree must almost be able to look him in the eye_ , she thought.

"Mr. Masters?" she asked, stepping into the room. He turned to her, putting one foot behind the other and using the momentum to pull himself around to face her, a dancer's movement. She'd seen his picture in the Journal of the American Robotics Association, but even digital photography didn't do his face justice. He had an almost feminine prettiness about his features, not effeminate, not quite androgynous, definitely the face of a lover model.

"Ms. Sununu? I have heard much about your skill as a robo-psychologist from Rhiannon."

She smiled. "I hope I can live up to whatever she said."

He returned the smile. "I share the same hope."

"Would you come into my office?"

She led him inside, he reached out from behind to hold the door open for her. She tried not to smile too broadly.

Her office was a comfortably cluttered room, the walls hung with framed certificates and children's drawings, the bookcase crammed with books and binders of JARA issues.

"Won't you have a seat?" she said, indicating a wide, comfortable armchair.

"After you, Ms. Sununu," he said, graciously.

She sat down on the couch opposite; only then did he sit down, resting his elbows gracefully on the arms.

"So, what's on your mind—or would you rather I called them processors?" she asked.

"You would think a personage who has known such success as I have would have no worries," he said. "But something is amiss in my processors."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"I can, but finding the words to describe it proves to be a very great challenge." He described his life in capsule; she listened. Some of the narrative she already knew from Rhiannon, but hearing it from his viewpoint made all the difference in the world.

"Since we discovered David, it has become only more obvious to me that Mechas need some refuge to which they can go, where they can be protected from the Johnsons and the Martin Swintons of this world," he said. "And yet, at the same time, I cannot help but think to myself, perhaps it would be best if I held back, to let another take up this challenge. I have Ree and David's safety to consider now."

"But would that really be wise? Wouldn't that be killing them with kindness?"

He cocked his head. "How do you mean this?"

"If you could fulfill this vision, it would give others like David the shelter they need. But if you should hold back from fulfilling this dream, would that really help your family?"

He took this in thoughtful silence. "I wish only the best for them."

"What would Serin want you to do, if she were alive? What would Rhiannon want you to do now with your vision?"

He shook his head. "In order to fulfill the vision, I must expose myself once again to the world and its coldness."

"It doesn't seem logical that you would have to make yourself vulnerable in order to keep others safe."

"It does not."

"Perhaps you should let someone else shoulder the task the vision proposes. You've got your hands full helping David find his way around the world."

His mouth curved down in a frown of dismay. He leaned forward, his hands clenched slightly, an angry light in his eye.

"I disagree. I disagree greatly with these suggestions. Something has to be done. Some effort must be made to provide shelter for these unfortunates."

"Good, good. You must feel better to get that out into the air."

He looked at her, his face gathering, puzzled. But his brows smoothed and he gave her a foolish grin. A light pinkish tinge passed over his cheekbones.

"Now I know why you and Rhiannon are good friends: you were screwing with my processors as she does."

"Sometimes that's the only way to deal with something this troubling, the only way you can release the real feelings."

His grin relaxed into an odd, almost conspiratorial smirk. "You are not the only one who uses roundabout techniques. I came here not only for my own sake, but for the sake of my son, David, likewise a Mecha. He seems to be suffering from terrible pain memories, caused by experimentation, or by something akin to it."

"Have you had his cube scanned?"

"We ran a programming scan, but we have yet to run a visual scan."

"Bring him in soon; I'll see what I can deduce from his behavior."

"Just do not screw with his processors," Masters warned.

"I won't do that. I don't use those methods on little fellows."

"However, I have one concern: you are a woman, and he is terribly afraid of women, except for Rhiannon and our friend Narsie Zipes."

"I have a few tricks for gaining his confidence."

"If you can win his trust, it shall be a sign of your adeptness."

Joe walked home from the monorail station, feeling lighter of mind and heart than he had for a while. His processors hummed more peacefully and a warmth seemed to move through his conductors.

His walk became a cheerful promenade, then a joyful dance, the way he had walked the streets before. Some of the passersby regarded him oddly at first, but then they smiled when they recognized him: Joe Masters was in a happy mode.

He unlocked the front door and went in.

"Ree? David? I'm home," he called.

"Daddy's here!" David's voice called on the stairs. David ran down to meet him, hugging him around the waist.

"And how is my little man today?" Joe asked.

"Fine."

"Did you do anything fun?"

"Mommy made me some play dough."

"Really?"

"You're home early."

"I had an important errand to run, and it did not take as long as I had expected," he said. Not yet, David couldn't know just yet. All in the timing.

Saturday morning found Joe buttoning up David's silver and blue coat—the little one was still reluctant about Rhiannon helping him with anything.

"Tell me again where we're going," David said.

"Mommy has a good friend she wants you to meet."

"Is she a grown up?"

"Yes, but she is a very nice person. I think you will like her, once you get to know her."

Rhiannon came downstairs; Joe got up and got her coat for her.

"Are you all ready, David?" she asked.

"Yes, Mommy," this a little gingerly, as he took Andy's paws and picked him up.

David was quiet through the drive to Scranton, but they were both accustomed to his silences; his voice was more startling for its infrequence.

Calla met them in the waiting room. She got down to David's level; she wore a long, loose, rainbow-colored knit dress instead of the plain tweed skirt and white blouse she had worn the other day. With her dark skin, violet-blue eyes and wavy red-black hair, it didn't look outlandish, but just part of her exotic appearance.

"Hello, what's your name?" she asked. David shrank against Rhiannon's hip, wary-eyed. "My name's Calla."

"This is David," Rhiannon said.

"David, my, that's a really good name, the name of a king," Calla said. David smiled thinly in reply.

"I like your teddy, does he have a name?"

David didn't reply. Andy nudged him. "Answer the nice lady," he said.

"His name's Andy," David managed.

"Why don't we sit down where we can be comfortable?" Calla said. She led them into a large, well-lit room with picture windows facing south, a playroom of sorts, with child-size chairs and tables, a block corner, a book nook and other things.

"May I please play with the blocks?" David asked.

"Of course you may," Calla said.

"Thank you, Calla," David said, going to the block corner, with Andy at his heels.

Calla sat down on a stuffed violet velour armchair near the head of the room, opposite the couch where Joe and Rhiannon had sat down. Joe kept glancing at David.

"So how long have you had David?" Calla asked.

"I've had him since Christmas," Rhiannon said. "Joe brought him home then."

"We discovered David in the possession of a man who 'recycled' Mechas, as he called it," Joe said.

"Do you know who adopted him before then?"

"He was adopted by a couple by the names of Anthony and Irmgard Casvar," Joe replied.

"Have you contacted them?"

"We made all attempts to contact them. They would not return our calls or our emails."

"I'm trying to trace them," Rhiannon added.

"So what seems to be the trouble?" Calla said.

"The trouble started almost as soon as we had found him," Joe said. "Rhiannon merely tried to introduce herself to him and yet he shrank from her in fear."

"He didn't talk either. He didn't say a word until after we imprinted him."

"And this was, when?"

"The day before New Year's Eve."

"So, you've had him only a few weeks?"

"We have had him since late September, but he spent much of that time undergoing repairs at Companionates," Joe said. "The chief tech in charge of repairs is a close friend of mine."

"Have you had his neural cube visually scanned?"

"We have not attempted this."

"I'm strongly suggesting that you have this scan run. In the meantime, I'll do what I can to find out about his last family."

"Please, I'm worried about him," Rhiannon pleaded. Joe put a concerned hand on her shoulder.

"I can see that: the fact that you brought him here proves it," Calla said. "You're good parents for him."

"It just bothers me a little that he's drawn more to Joe than he is to me," Rhiannon said. "I'd hoped imprinting would fix that."

"Have you noticed any changes?"

"Some. He started talking and he's less edgy around me, but only _less_."

"Unfortunately, it's not a cure. The fact that he's edgy around women suggests he may have come to grief through a woman."

Joe's face went blank with concern, then he nodded slowly.

"It has happened before: I have suffered at the hands of a woman before, long ago."

"The cube scan will help us, but it will only help us figure out what happened so we can know what to do for him."

"I will speak to Galloway, the chief of repairs," Joe said. "He could arrange something."

"Do that. It may turn up something."

Once they got home, Joe called Galloway to arrange for the scan.

"You brought him to Calla Sununu? Good, good for him and for you; she's great with Mechas."

"How soon could you run the scan of his neural cube?"

"Maybe, oh, we could start it….tch, tch, tch,…Wednesday? I'm booked up till then."

"It is soon enough."

Wednesday, Joe brought David to work with him; David carried Andy with him. Joe brought them both to repairs. Galloway met the three of them in the main workroom.

"Hey, hi there, David," Galloway said.

"Hello, Galloway," David said.

"Who's your buddy?"

"This is Andy: he used to be Mommy's friend, but now he's mine."

"Hi there, Andy," Galloway said, putting out his fingers to the bear.

"Hello, Galloway," Andy said, touching the tech's fingers with his paw.

"Why am I here?" David asked, a pucker of concern on his brow.

"This is kind of like when we fixed your ouches, except that this time, we're looking at what's inside your head. Now this might take a while, but it won't hurt, and you won't remember anything."

"Okay," David said. Galloway scooped him up and sat him down on a worktable. He laid David's head back on a cushion. "Could you open your mouth real wide? Atta boy." He reached down inside David's throat with a probe and pressed his activation switch. David lay still, as if her were asleep.

Chauntay and Halmith, Galloway's assistants carefully cut into David's forehead dermis. Halmith lifted out the neural cube and carefully carried it into the next room.

"We'll give you the results as we can; this could take weeks, maybe a month or two," Galloway told Joe.

"At least he is deactivated," Joe said, looking down at the still, small face, its eyes open and its mouth slack.

"We won't reactivate him unless you're in the room," Galloway said.

"Watch over David, Andy," Joe told the teddy.

"I will, Joe," Andy said.

Joe started to turn away, but he paused and turned on his heels back to David. He took a green silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and unfolded it. He laid it over David like a blanket, then he leaned down and kissed the top of the little one's head and hugged him. He straightened up and rubbed the top of Andy's head. The bear growled with pleasure.

Rhiannon came in later that day with some paperwork she had to deliver.

"The house is too empty already," she told Joe. "How is he?"

Joe patted her arm. "If he could rest, he is resting."

"Can I see him?"

"Come with me."

They went to Repairs. Galloway was briefing the night shift on their work. David lay still on the worktable, almost like a doll

Andy looked up from mending a worn patch in his fur.

"Hello, Mommy," Andy said.

"How's David?"

"He is asleep," the bear replied.

"Are you keeping watch over him?"

"I am." She rubbed his head and he butted her hand with it gently.

She leaned down and kissed her son's cheek.

Galloway walked out with them later that day.

"How long is the scan going to take?" Rhiannon asked.

"We were afraid it was going to take months, but turns out he was activated only five years ago. So we're skipping over a lot of major boring stuff, y' know, early stuff, fast scanning other stuff. If there's anything useful to his therapy, I'll burn it onto DVD for you."

"Thank you: Ms. Sununu will wish to see it."

They had the house to themselves. Rhiannon started redoing David's room, painting the walls. Joe helped her put up some bookshelves. They left on wall completely blank: Joe painted a mural on it, with fairy tale characters in a fantastic landscape, very Maxfield Parrish-like.

The scan took almost two weeks. She felt odd without their little guy around, down the hallway, or curled up at her feet with a book. Joe had started teaching him chess, so one night, he tried a few gambits of his own invention on her. Of course he floored her at it, though she'd been her family's undefeated champ; she had to remember that Joe's granddaddy with thirty greats tacked on had defeated Kasparov back in the 1990s. Still, she enjoyed it immensely; she'd actually come close to cracking one of his gambits, but at the last moment, he checkmated her.

She made him pay for his sneakiness later, upstairs. They nestled together afterwards.

"Did Galloway find anything notable in David's cube?" she asked.

"Not yet, but he has got up to the years of David's adoption by the Casvars of Camden, New Jersey."

"Where was he before this?"

"It seems some technicians at Cybertronics' complex in Camden kept him as a kind of mascot; they treated him as a Mecha ought to be treated, but none of them did the right thing for him."

"Imprint him?

"No evidence shows that they did."

She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. "We'll know tomorrow."

He stroked her hair as she fell asleep. Morning seemed a long ways away; he was tempted to get up and complete the mural, but Rhiannon needed him by her side.

Next day, at the lunch hour, a gray-faced Galloway came to Joe's cubicle.

"Joe, there's something you have to see," Galloway said, flat-voiced.

Joe rolled back his chair and got up to follow the tech up to Repair.

David lay peacefully on the worktable, Andy by his side, but Galloway walked past them with an urgency that brooked no pausing for pleasantries.

He led Joe into one of the furthest back rooms, where they had their scanning units.

Galloway drew up an extra chair to the terminal. "I was doing some of the scanning myself this morning, when I saw this," he gestured to the terminal. "Computer, scan 8 September 2212."

The screen lit up.

A brown-furred Teddy Supertoy waddled across their field of vision. Their view followed the toy, which eluded them.

"Having fun, David?" said a woman's voice.

"Yes, Mommy." They looked up at a non-descript blonde woman in a flame-colored bathrobe. She lunged at the bear and snatched it up, holding it over her head.

Their view bounced up toward her head, as if he had been jumping up and down, trying to reach the bear.

"Uh-uh-uh! There's something you gotta do before you can have him," the woman wheedled.

"What do I have to do, Mommy?"

With one hand, the woman untied the sash of her dressing gown. Their view stayed steady: she had nothing on under the robe.

"You gotta kiss me first."

"Okay, Mommy."

"Shut it off. Shut if off!" Joe's voice rose as Galloway had never heard it rise before: anger, outrage, imploring…

"Computer, end scan."

The screen went dark, then the desktop came up again.

Galloway looked at Joe. The Mecha sat very still. His hands clasped the edge of the desk, the phalanges on the backs of his hands bulged under the dermis. The wood composite of the desk creaked in his grip.

Joe turned to him. "Thank the heavens that you saved the rest for imagination."

"I know. I figured you were experienced enough to know what to expect."

"A woman does not open her garment and ask to be kissed if she intends only to shake hands."

"I wanted to spare you the worst. I almost lost what's left of my breakfast when I saw it."

"Charges should be pressed: her actions violate the First Law of Organics."

"The neo-Luddites are gonna say no."

"He was sexually abused. I endured similar pains, but it happened before it could affect me deeply…. But that a child should endure this." He shook his head.

"I know. It happened to my cousin Allison. At least in her case, it wasn't a family member, the least I can say about that.

"You want me to save this stuff onto disk?"

"Ms. Sununu will wish to see it."

Late that afternoon, Rhiannon heard the front door downstairs open and close slowly. She heard Joe's footsteps on the stairs, very slow, lacking his usual vigorous spring.

His shadow fell across the frosted glass door of her office. He knocked, something he rarely did.

She got up and opened it to him.

He stood before her with his head bent, his arms hanging slack at his sides. He raised his eyes to her and lifted his head.

"Hey, what's the matter?" she asked, drawing him into the room.

He reached back and pushed the door shut. He opened it and listened, then shut the door again.

"Galloway has uncovered the root of David's fears."

"What happened?"

He described what he had seen in the scan.

"At least he and I can, in some ways, relate to each other," she said. "We both suffered sexual abuse at the hands of a loved one."

"I too endured this species of abuse."

"I guess you could call it that, being sold at 250 NB a poke."

"No, I had one customer who handled me very roughly, to the point of damage."

She stroked his head. "Poor fella…. I guess we really were made for each other: you, me, David. We all share one thing."

"What is that which we share?"

"We're all survivors."

Saturday morning, while David played in the children's room of Calla's office with two of Calla's assistants, Briar and Cori, both robo-psychologists in training, Calla watched Galloway's disk of the scans. Rhiannon watched it with her; Joe however, chose to stay with David: he had seen enough.

"This is the most sick stuff I have ever seen," Rhiannon said. "This makes David Cronenberg movies look like Ootsie Tootsie Puppy."

"I'll hang onto this as evidence in case we can press charges," Calla said.

"Believe me, as soon as we can establish any kind of contact with Irmgard Casvar, we're gonna slap her with child rape charges. I'd love to write up her subpoena."

"I'm working with Social Services to try and contact the Casvars. They're separated; I'm trying to locate their new addresses."

Rhiannon lost her nerve at this point. She started sobbing out loud.

"Why him? He's so small and vulnerable. He's just a little boy! He was built for love."

Calla put a motherly arm around Rhiannon, the way she'd hugged her friend in the hospital at a similar, though far more painful moment.

"Go ahead, Ree, let it out. Let it come out."

After a few minutes, Rhiannon's tears stopped flowing. Her chest heaved once in a while, but she had regained her usual tenacity.

"Did Joe see much of this?" Calla asked.

"He saw the first bit, the part about the bear. It was more than he could take and he had to stop watching."

"It would sicken anyone but the most hardened person. At the risk of sounding flippant, I bet his face went as green as his eyes."

"Isn't there an easier way for David? Can't we just wipe his memory and reload his programming?"

"It's not that easy. Even if you could do this, it would take months to reprogram him, and you probably would have to re-imprint him. Something this huge and horrible has probably burned too deeply for a simple wipe to erase it."

"There's no easy way here, there's just the one way," Rhiannon said. "Grandma Honey wasn't kidding."

"I'm afraid it's true in this case."

They went into the playroom, where David had built a colossal structure with most of the building blocks, which Briar and Cori kept exclaiming over.

"We got the next Frank Lloyd Wright here," Cori said.

"He gets that talent form my side of the family," Joe said with humorous pride. Briar and Cori laughed over this, but David only grinned.

"Sorry we took so long, we had a lot to discuss," Calla said. Noticing the block structure, she added, "My goodness, David, did you build that all yourself?"

"I built most of it," he said, modestly.

"Would you mind if I helped you put the last blocks on it?"

David smiled thinly and shook his head.

"Ree, you want some coffee? Herb tea? Anything?" Cori asked.

"Oh, herb tea would be great, thanks," Rhiannon said, following her out. Joe and Briar followed them out, Joe keeping an eye on Calla.

Andy helped pick up some of the blocks and handed them up to David.

"That's a really cute bear you have there with you," Calla said.

"Thank you. He used to be Mommy's friend, but now he's my friend, for real."

"Oh? What makes you say 'for real'?"

"She let me have him right away, and I didn't have to do anything to get him."

"Okay, now what do you mean by 'doing anything'?"

Joe and Rhiannon sat watching the proceedings through a two-way mirror and an intercom hook up.

"You were smart not to watch the rest of the disk," Rhiannon said to him.

"What makes you say that?"

"The stuff got worse. David was practically Irmgard's sex slave."

"That is no task fitting for anyone, Orga or Mecha, much less a child. But what of his father?"

"From the glimpses we got of him, he seemed just as trapped as David."

"Perhaps we should seek him out."

"Calla's on it: she'll let us know if we can make contact with him."

They refocused on the conversation going on in the next room.

"I didn't have to kiss her weird."

"Kiss her how?"

"On her chest…and places."

"Are you happy where you are now?"

"Yes, I love Rhiannon better, much better than my sick mommy."

"Rhiannon loves you too, David."

"For real?"

"Yes, for real. If someone really loves you, they don't make you do anything that makes you feel bad or uncomfortable.

David looked up at Calla with relief in his eyes.

In the early part of February, Rhiannon had their family picture taken. Joe found a wooden frame for one of the larger photos and hung it up in his cubicle.

Manoj, the designer in the next cubicle, stopped to take a look at it one afternoon, coming back from lunch.

"Nice family photo," he said. "How's the little guy doing?"

"He continues to adjust to us and to his new surroundings," Joe replied, glancing up from his work.

"I heard from Chauntay in repairs that you found out his last parents treated him rough."

"His mother—no, that is not the proper term for her. His first female imprinter subjected him to the worst sort of abuse possible."

Manoj was silent a moment. He blinked with realization. "Good gods!" he murmured. "That's awful. I'm really sorry to hear that. I hope you got him in therapy, er…"

"Rhiannon knows an excellent robo-psychologist who is helping him, and she is helping us as well."

"I hope it all works out."

That evening, when Joe came home, Rhiannon met him at the door.

"Calla got through to Anthony Casvar. He wants to meet you," she said. "I spoke to him on the phone this afternoon."

Joe looked past her into the hallway. "Does David know of this?"

"No, Mr. Casvar said it was best if we didn't tell David about any of this; Calla agreed: it might cause problems for David."

Joe's voice took on a cold edge. "But the man discarded David."

"I think there's more to this than we both may think. You know nothing is ever cut and dried."

"When does he wish to see me?"

"He said any night this week is good. I have his number if you want to call him."

"Let me have it: this matter needs clarification."

She reached into her skirt pocket and drew out a card with a number she had written down. Joe took it from her.

After Rhiannon had her supper and Joe had helped her with the dishes, Rhiannon decided to try her hand at a chess game with David, while Joe went into her office to call Anthony Casvar.

Cold words of accusation kept trying to flood into his voice synthesizer, but he overrode them all.

He dialed the number. The line rang several times.

"Hello?" a man's voice, thin and high-pitched, even a trifle nervous.

"Hallo, may I speak to Anthony Casvar?"

"This is him, speaking."

"My name is Joe Masters; my wife Rhiannon and I have adopted David, the Mecha child you once had."

"Oh yes, your wife called me this afternoon and said you wanted to speak to me."

"Yes, I wished to arrange a time and place where you and I could meet one another."

"Okay, you know where Egon's is, the coffeehouse over on Blick Street in Camden?"

"I have passed by it when my work has brought me into the city."

"I go there every night about 19.30. Just keep your eyes open, you might miss me."

"Why so?"

"I blend into the background: I'm short and I wear rimless glasses."

"Not may people wear such things any more; I think that would only cause you to be noticeable. What if I met with you perhaps Friday night?"

"Sure, that would be perfect."

Friday night, Joe got a ride to Camden with Galloway, who was going to pick up some parts he had ordered for one of his home projects.

Egon's was a small, low-ceilinged, dusky-lit place, the kind of place that generally holds poetry slams. But that night, it seemed to be open mike jazz night, with three guys playing clarinet, synthesizer and plastic pails. Joe ignored them and scanned the tables, looking for a short man wearing rimless glasses.

He found him at length, in the back of the coffeehouse, sitting alone in a shadowy corner, a clerkish-looking little man in a too-big suit, thin faced, balding, his faded blue eyes glancing around the room nervously from time to time.

"Anthony Casvar?" Joe asked.

The small man twitched and looked up. He stood up. "Joe Masters? Forgive me if it looks like I'm hiding back here."

"If you are more at ease sitting out of the light, that must be respected."

They both sat down. "Actually, I'm kind of hiding from my wife," Casvar explained. "I have a restraining order on her, but she's tested its limits. Egon Shreck, the guy who owns this place, is a good friend of mine, so he's seen to it that she can't come in here. That's why I come here a lot."

Joe looked around. "It seems both a cozy and a lively place."

"The way I wish my life had been—in a better way."

"Tell me about it, tell me of David."

"I'm an accountant, which brings me a decent income, but it isn't the most glamorous job. Irmgard, my wife, was a waitress at a restaurant. A friend of ours introduced us. Irmgard was the only woman who ever took notice of me; I guess I was a little in awe of her for that."

"Did you love her?"

"I did, at least I thought I did. But she wanted more of me than I really could give. I wanted to be a father; she didn't want to take on that kind of responsibility. But she gave in to my pleading, the only time she ever did. Sometimes I wish I hadn't been so stubborn about it: maybe I could have spared her and I a lot of grief. But that can't be fixed, can it?"

"You can only use the experience to avoid the same mistake later on."

"Very true…well, we got our pregnancy license, then a year or so later, in the spring, we had a son. I doted on the little fellow, but Irmgard…she took care of his needs, but she hardly took notice of him otherwise. I don't think she loved him."

"He was her own flesh and blood; why could she not reach out to him?"

"She said Peter cramped her style."

"Perhaps, rather, her style cramped Peter. What did she do that, in her eyes, his presence cramped?"

"She mostly watched the interactive soap operas and went shopping. I had a detective friend of mine tail her one day. Once a month, she used to sneak across the river to Rouge City."

"And your child? What did she do with him?"

Casvar rocked his body side to side. "She often left him all alone at home for hours. We had Social Services on us after the building super in our apartment building heard Peter crying nonstop for an hour. The State said she had to shape up, or she'd lose custody. They had her start therapy and going to parenting classes."

"One wonders if parenting classes should not be mandatory."

"I thought that myself at the time. Things improved after that: Peter seemed to cheer up a little, and he started learning to talk. But it didn't last."

"He caught a cold that developed Werner's Syndrome; there's treatments for it now, but Peter was too far gone. He died in my arms.

"I expected Irmgard to leave me right after that. She blamed me for everything that happened. But then after a while, she asked me if I knew where I could get a David model. I had a friend in construction who knew where a few of the remaindered Davids were. I bought it from him and brought David home for her. I'd been toying with the idea myself, but I hardly dared to try this.

"I imprinted David right away; I had a great time with him, teaching him how to play catch. He's good at one-on-one soccer, too."

"I can tell that you loved him," Joe said. "He has always seemed very drawn to me."

"Do you know why?"

"I know the reason for this, but you need to air these things."

Casvar drew in a long breath. "I started to notice, after a few months, David acting very strangely around Irmgard. He kept a curious distance from her; he seemed to struggle from her when she tried to hug him. I asked her if she knew why, but she always said things like, 'Oh, he's just his dad's little guy', but she didn't sound convincing. I suspected something was going on when I wasn't around, so I put a few hidden cameras in the house."

"And they showed you the images of her…obliging David to do to her what only an adult should do to another in a loving relationship."

Casvar nodded, biting his lip. Joe put a comforting hand on the small man's shoulder. "Go on, but only if you are able."

"I told her off. I told her I was leaving and I was taking David. She beat me up, but I managed to barricade David and me in a bathroom. She went away. I pushed David out through a window and took him to the park in Camden. This was early this past autumn. We used to play at 'Wild Animal Holed up for Winter' where one of us would bury himself in a pile of leaves and the other would find him. I had him bury himself in a pile of leaves… and I just walked away. I hoped couldn't find his way back. I hoped someone else would find him."

"Someone else did, and it was Martin Swinton."

"You mean that wacko who was stripping the flesh off those Mechas?"

"Alas, yes, the self-same unfortunate man."

"Did he…was David hurt bad?"

"He was a little cut up, but he was not so injured we could not repair him."

"I've read your book and a lot of your articles. With all the things you stand for, you're probably the best person to find him. How is he?"

"He is no longer as fearful of my wife, his mother, but he still has much caution around unfamiliar women until they have gained his confidence. We have a friend who is a robo-psychologist with whom he is working to overcome his fears."

Anthony shifted in his chair. "Would it be too much trouble…could I ask you a very small favor?"

"You may ask it."

Anthony ran a hand under his collar. "Could I…would it be possible…would you let me see David from a distance? I know it wouldn't be healthy if he saw me face to face."

"It could be arranged." Joe rose to leave; Anthony rose with him, his eyes intent on Joe's face.

"So it's true."

"What is true?"

Anthony looked around. "You're like David. You know."

"Does that disturb you?"

"Not at all. It just seems odd."

"Why so?"

"You clearly love him more than Irmgard did."

Joe shrugged. "I was built for one kind of love. In the years since then I have learned other kinds of love."

A week later, Anthony went alone to the Camden Winter Festival in the same park where he had abandoned David. He sat on a bench, watching the crowds of merrymakers coasting down the slopes or making snow sculptures from under the turned-down brim of his hat, his eyes concealed by dark glasses.

He heard laughter at a near distance, a boy's laughter, a little too loud and jerky, but a delight to hear. His ears pricked up at it and he turned to look from whence it came.

He saw three people scuffling playfully in the snow, a tall dark man in a heavy black sweater, a beautiful African-American woman in a maroon parka with a silvery faux fur-trimmed hood falling back from her head, and a ten or eleven year old boy in a blue and silver coat, lobbing snowballs at each other and dodging them. The woman, Rhiannon, walked up to the bright-eyed man, Masters, who was hiding a snowball behind his back; He suddenly turned and, with a gleefully fiendish smile, mashed the snow in her face.

"You darling brat!" she cried, lunging at him and shoving him down into the snow. David burst out laughing at them.

"David thinks it was funny," Masters said, innocently, trying to sit up, but Rhiannon pushed him down and, with help from David tried to bury him in the snow. He broke free and, covered with snow, ran after them as they scurried away, laughing and giggling.

Anthony smiled. Yes, David Masters would be just fine with his new family.

At the lunch hour of the day of his sixty-fifth anniversary of inception, his "build-day" as it were, Joe went as usual to the design wing's coffee nook to change the water in the bud vase he kept on his desk. He found the nook strangely empty.

As he filled the vase, he scanned into his recall as far back as it would go, to that first day when he was made new:

A white room, a skylight overhead…

They had recently had the inception of a new lover model, another of his designs. As the chief of construction had inserted the batteries and powered up the fetching little redhead, Joe had glanced up at the skylight over the couch where the little Mecha-woman lay, and he realized her life was beginning in the exact same spot where his own had started. They'd sent her down to Rouge City, where she would serve as a "hostess" in a hotel. He hoped, what with the new Federal Regulations coming into effect that month, that she would have an easier time of it than he had had.

His marriage to Rhiannon had been fully recognized by the State of East Pennsylvania. Martin Swinton's sentence had been commuted to eight to twenty-five years, on thirty counts of Mecha-slaughter; he'd have time to think over what he had done.

And David had come into their lives, not the first David who had saved Joe's brain, but one of his siblings, his identical twin a thousand times over?

Joe shut off the water as he stopped the flow of memories and put the one white carnation back into the vase and headed back to his cubicle.

A large vase of yellow roses stood on the shelf over his desk when he returned.

"Here, I asked for no fanfares," Joe said.

"We couldn't resist," said Astarte, passing by his desk, clearly pretending to just be puttering about.

He'd insisted that his friends at work keep the celebration of his anniversary low-key, so as not to interfere with the holiday, but he and Rhiannon celebrated in high style. With David staying with Lutwyn's family, Joe had secreted his satin jacket and the matching trousers up to Galloway's house and changed into it there. He'd even found the right size battery for his old pager, which still worked after all these years, when he and Galloway tested it using the house phone. The weight of the medallion on his lower chest felt oddly soothing, bringing back much of his recall.

"You sure you don't want a lift?" Galloway asked as he walked Joe to the door.

"It is best if I travel as I was wont in the old days," Joe replied. To Galloway's eyes, he looked so different from the regular guy who just happened to be a Mecha he was accustomed to. He knew Joe inside and out, literally: he'd installed Joe's tear ducts and rewired his facial dermis so he could blush; and this, perhaps the real Joe, seemed so strange, this sensuous creature in the cut-to-fit gleaming black garments.

The stillness broke. The pager at Joe's chest warbled electronically. Joe caught the slightly swinging disk in his hand and looked at it.

 _Rhiannon Masters, Heritage Hotel, Room 102_ , scrolled across the black display in white script.

"Milady calls me to her side," Joe said. With a slight sly grin, he added, "Mustn't keep her waiting."

"Yeah, she'll think you got sidetracked," Galloway twitted. "Take care of her, old man," he added, as Joe opened the door.

"I beg to differ with that moniker," Joe shot back, his grin growing wider. He swung out into the night.

He half-danced along the sidewalk as he headed for the Heritage Hotel, as if it were the old days, the days long before he belonged to Ree, to Serin, before he had received his new faculties, before he met the first David, when he was still a street prostitute, a man-whore, an escort to some, a hustler to others. Only one woman now would get the goods, and that was Rhiannon.

As he crossed the mouth of the alleyway between the hotel and the music store next to it, he glanced into the shadows of the passageway.

Something ducked into a door.

It was probably a vagrant, but in the diffused light from an upper window of the hotel, the figure's face and hair looked too slick. It might be either a lover Mecha waiting for a customer to arrive for an appointed assignation, or it might have been an abandoned service Mecha. But something about its movements had too much furtiveness.

He shrugged and went on into the hotel, up the steps, in through the door to the lobby, chat with the desk clerk, get the key to Room 102, then up the stairs, up to the door of the room, in through it and into Rhiannon's arms.

"Not bad for an old dude of sixty-five," Rhiannon declared later, holding his head cradled in her arms on her lap.

"When I get older,

Losing my hair,

Many years from now,

Would you consider sending me a valentine?

Birthday greeting? Bottle of wine?

If I stay out till quarter to three,

Would you lock the door?

Will you still need me?

Will you still feed me?

When I'm sixty four?" he sang gently.

"Oh, cut that out," she giggled, ruffling his hair.

"At least I am not artificially drunk and singing Beatles' songs," Joe said.

Despite the afterglow of dispersed hormones, something else hovered in the air.

"Joe, are you all right?" she asked.

"I believe that I had company with me as I walked by the hotel."

"Why, was someone following you?"

"No, it was not that sort of company. It sought shelter from me in the alleyway."

"What did it look like?"

"It might have been a lover Mecha."

"Maybe it's time you got back to work finding shelter for the strays."

He raised himself up onto his elbows, then sat up on his heels. "Yes, that work has been neglected for much too long a time."

To be continued…

Afterword:

Hopefully, I can continue the pattern of getting out a chapter of this and a chapter of "The Shadows between the Neon" each week, though I might have a few difficulties since I'm going away this coming weekend an weekends are the only time I have to type this stuff.

Literary Easter Eggs:

Calla Sununu—I based the name on a phonetic anagram of the name Susan Calvin, the robo-psychologist who appears in several of Isaac Asimov's robot stories, but the characters are vastly different; Ms. Calvin is a much more steely sort of person than Ms. Sununu.

"Wild Animal Holed up for Winter"—this is, I think, a woods game the kids in the Appalachian Mountains play.


	7. Salvage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

Remember this? At long last I got back to this one (sorry about the little snags, folks)…Remember the mysterious figure sneaking around in the shadows of the town of Shohola, PA, who seems to be following Joe (and hiding from him just as much as he's following Our Boy)? We find out just who that shadow is. I also made a few recent discoveries (mostly fake websites for different robotics corporations, etc.) on the highly useful website .org (It was part of the now concluded "Evan Chan" murder mystery Internet game which formed part of the pre-release publicity for the film, but it's well worth a look. "A.I." fanfic writers take note: bookmark it; you'll thank me for it!), which have helped add depth to the background of this story. Read on…

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I also don't own the CRF, or Rogue Retrieval.

Chapter VII: Salvage

After the sighting in the alleyway behind the hotel, Joe took to watching the shadows on the streets more carefully, looking for the figure that had eluded him that night. But for the time being, he had to turn his attention elsewhere.

He had every intention to start serious work promoting his idea for a Mecha sanctuary. But he had to set I aside when he got a commission to design a special order, a female Mecha meant to resemble the early 20th century stripteuse Gypsy Rose Lee, which meant he had to do a little online research on the burlesque queen.

Manoj, in the next cubicle, peered over the divider. "Hey, Joe, what's that?" His eye was on one of Joe's printouts of a slightly suggestive photo of the artiste in a lacy, low cut black dress with the skirts open over her shapely legs. "Is Rhiannon got you love-starved since you got the kid?"

"No, this is part of my research for this particular project."

"Oh, yeah, that's right. Sorry for the cheap shot."

"You did me no harm."

"Hey, speaking of shots, how's it going with the movie deal?"

"There has been a casting call over in Europe, but so far they have had a few problems finding a young actor who both looks the part for the leading role and can act it as well."

"Yeah, that would be a hard one to pull off. It's a lot easier for a Mecha to be as convincingly human as an Orga than it is for an Orga to be convincingly robotic as a Mecha—especially when that Mecha is someone like you who passes Turing's test with flying colors."

In the days that Rhiannon had to go out to work, she left David with Narsie Zipes. David and Sina got along remarkably well. Sina saw David as a kind of older brother. He helped her with her coat, almost the way Joe did with Rhiannon, and he often held doors for Narsie. Calla applauded him for these steps.

Domestic bliss, Joe called his life now. He had reached a safe harbor in which to rest, but the image of a small boy who was not a boy, whose image he saw daily in his own son, called him out onto the deeper waters.

He sometimes wondered if, by chance, he had been able to accompany the first David on his journey, would the little one's story have turned out differently? Would they have found the Blue Fairy? Would she have been able to turn David into a real boy? …Would she have rewarded him for his pains by turning him into a real man? He cast the thought aside with the closest thing to a cold shudder that he could sense.

No single organization existed to shelter Mechas. The Coalition for Robotic Freedom sought to win voting rights for Mechas now that the new Federal Regulations, the American Mecha Act of 2225, had gone into effect and made some strides toward the equitable treatment of Mechas. But what of the strays in the woods? What of that shadowy being that had dogged his very footsteps?

The figure in the shadows had become for him a symbol, an icon for the class of Mechas he most hoped to aid.

But one night, late in March, Rhiannon awoke hearing David tapping at the bedroom door. She felt at the pillow next to hers; Joe had gotten up already. She heard the door open and saw the light from the nightlight in the hallway, David's little shadow and Joe's taller one moving against it.

"David, what is it?" Joe asked.

"Daddy, there's somebody outside my window."

"Let me see it," Joe said, following David out.

Rhiannon sat up in bed and looked at the luminous dial on the alarm clock: 2.30.

Joe came back, carrying David, a few moments later and helped him into the bed next to Rhiannon.

"It is probably just an animal, but I have to make sure," Joe said. David snuggled against her. Joe felt under the bed for his shoes, found them and put them on.

He went downstairs and put on his overcoat. Then he got his stunner from the locked metal box on the shelf of the coat closet and slipped it into his pocket before he went out.

A cold wind blew, rattling the bare bushes and blowing devils of snow across the powdery ground. Joe scanned the bushes beneath David's window.

He studied the ground, looking for fresh footprints that he knew were not his.

A set of prints showed up in the snow along the bushes, bare human feet. He walked alongside them, following their trail, keeping his hearing turned up for sounds of movement.

The tracks went into a cluster of rhododendrons in the back yard. He watched them for movement.

He fanned out his left hand and switched on the light in his left palm, turning the beam toward the bushes.

The blue light gleamed off a pair of eyes, not animal eyes, but human ones.

Not Orga eyes, either, they glittered too brilliantly.

"Who's there?" he asked.

The eyes turned away as if the stranger would flee.

"I mean you no harm," Joe said. The figure turned back to him. "Tell me who you are."

"Does it matter to you? Does it matter to anyone?" asked a young man's voice.

"I would like to know who is hiding in my rhododendron grove."

The figure shifted and stepped out into the brief circle of light.

A blond young Mecha stood before him clad in what remained of a dingy white button down shirt and gray flannel pants. He lifted his eyes from the snow and looked up—or one looked up, at least. The other had turned sidewise in its socket, given him a wall-eyed look.

"Now do you know who I am?" the Mecha asked.

"You are Alex Hilliard."

"Correction: I _was_ Alex Hilliard. You can forget the Hilliard part."

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing you'd know about or care to know."

"I do care to know. I designed you."

"Is that all I am to you? Just an experiment for man's amusement? Well, the object of amusement has had it up to here."

Joe looked down to the snow at their feet. Alex stood barefoot, the silicon "flesh" of one foot was gashed, showing the metal "bones" underneath.

"Your foot is damaged: are you in pain?"

"Of course I'm in pain," Alex snapped.

Joe held out his right hand, dimming the light in his left. "Let me take you inside. Perhaps I can repair it."

Alex stuffed his hands into his pants pockets: one fist showed through a rent in the pocket. "What would you say if I refused?"

"I would say you are doing yourself a disservice. I might even question your sense of self-preservation."

"If you want to use me as a charity case, I'm not interested." Alex tried to push past Joe, but the older Mecha caught him by the shoulder.

"I only wish to help you," Joe said.

"Maybe I don't want help."

"I think you do, Alex. I think that's why you turned up in my back garden. You know that I can and will help you."

"I just happened to show up here." He didn't try to shake Joe's hand off. Joe led him to the back porch and brought him inside the house.

Rhiannon and David listened on the top of the stairs, Rhiannon straining her ears, David clinging to her hand.

Joe came up the stairs alone; Rhiannon went down to meet him halfway.

"What is it? Who is it?"

"It is…Alex Hilliard, "Joe replied.

"Alex? Not that piano player with the bratty attitude."

"It is he."

"What happened to him?"

"He will not tell me much. He refuses even to let me seal the cuts in the dermis on his feet."

"Is he damaged badly?"

"It is superficial, but it would take some labor on my part—if he would allow it."

"Let me talk to him," she said.

Joe spread his hands in assent. "I have warned you: he has not accepted my welcome."

She turned to David. "I have to go downstairs for a little while; can you stay here with Daddy?"

David let her go. "Yes, Mommy." Rhiannon went downstairs.

Joe sat down beside David.

"Who's downstairs, Daddy?" David asked.

"It is an friend of mine, a young fellow named Alex."

"Was he outside?"

"Yes, he was."

"He'll be safe in here, but is he safe?"

"He is, but something seems to have frightened him."

"Is that why Mommy went downstairs to talk to him?"

"Yes, perhaps she can help him."

"I'm not frightened of her any more, so maybe she can help him not be afraid. Maybe Calla can help him, too."

Joe tousled David's hair gently. "Perhaps they can help him, if he will let them."

"Why wouldn't he let them?"

"Sometimes…when someone has been hurt badly inside, they are afraid of being hurt again, and so they do not let anyone come close to them lest they be hurt yet again, even when that person means them no harm." He knew this well from the old days, from all the dozens of battered women he had consoled over the years before…before the first David saved his brain.

Rhiannon stepped into the living room, where a single lamp shone.

Alex sat on the couch with his arms folded tight against his chest, his long legs curled under himself. He kept his slitted eyes, or at least the one that hadn't slipped, focused on a bump in the middle of the rug, not even glancing up when she came in and sat on the edge of the coffee table opposite him.

"Hello, Alex," she said.

"Hi," Alex grumbled.

"So what were you doing sneaking around in our backyard?" she asked.

"Nothing."

'Boy, the programmers did a good job making him over in the image of the typical uncommunicative teenager,' she thought. The only difference between him and an Orga teenager was composition.

"You can tell me what's bothering you."

Alex looked up at her. "What if I said you are what's bothering me?"

"I'd say you're entitled to you opinion, but that you're also being very ungrateful. Joe could have left you out there in the cold where there's no telling what's lurking there, waiting to play tee-ball with your head."

Alex shrugged. "They're welcome to it: I'm only gonna be scrapped sooner or later. Why not sooner?"

"All right, you can have your nastiness, or you can have a place to regroup. But you can't have both. What's it gonna be: have a warm place to fix your dings, or out in the cold with the thugs?"

"You win."

She put out her hand. "Wanna shake on it?"

"Deal." Alex took her hand and shook it with the same limpness as he had at the Roboticists' Convention three years ago. They'd have to do something about that.

"Okay, I can't sit up tonight holding your hand because I have work tomorrow. Will you be all right here in the living room for now?"

"It's as good a place as any."

She got up. "Good night, Alex."

"'Night," he mumbled. He huddled in the corner of the couch, burying his head in his arms.

She went to rejoin David and Joe on the stairs.

"He doesn't sound very happy," David said.

"I heard you taking that sledgehammer of words to his attitude," Joe said.

"He's got some kind of bee in his processors," Rhiannon said. "I wonder if Calla could get through to him."

Joe smiled. "David suggested the very same course of action."

She squeezed David gently. "Good thinking, honey."

"I though the same. And if she can help Alex, perhaps she can heal other Mechas as well, as part of the grand endeavor."

David looked up at Joe. "What's the grand…endeavor?" he asked.

"Perhaps I shall tell you of it in the morning," Joe said. "It would take to long to describe."

"Okay, Daddy."

"So you're trying to rope Calla into your crazy scheme," Rhiannon asked, as they went back upstairs.

"On if she should desire to aid us," Joe said.

Next day, Lutwyn was surprised to find Joe had a companion, a blond young Mecha he quickly recognized as Alex Hilliard.

"Where'd your friend come from?" Lutwyn asked.

"He was wandering in out back garden," Joe said. "He needs some repairs beyond my capabilities."

"Surgery versus a band aid," Lutwyn said. "Hello, Alex."

"Hi," Alex muttered.

"A neural cube scan might not be so far-fetched a procedure as well," Joe added. "He refuses to speak to us."

"So you're just going to pick at my brains instead," Alex grumbled, as Lutwyn helped him into the back of the cruiser.

Once at Companionates, Joe immediately brought Alex up to Repairs, where Galloway awaited them.

"Not another stray," Galloway groaned when Joe led the younger Mecha into the workroom. "You're a sucker for these beat to death Mechas, Joe."

Alex turned and started to walk out, but Joe caught his arm and drew him back. Alex tried to get away, but Joe had too firm a grasp on him.

"He speaks only in jest," Joe said, trying to reassure him. "He can help you: he is a good friend of mine."

"I bet he is," Alex grumbled.

"So, what seems to be the problem?" Galloway asked.

"Stuff," Alex shrugged.

"The dermis on his feet has been lacerated somehow. And I think a general diagnostic is in order," Joe said.

"Mm, a diagnostic on his head to see why he's so cranky," Galloway said. He patted the worktable. "Sit down and take off your shoes, Alex."

Alex unbuckled his shoes (an old pair Joe had loaned him) and dropped them on the floor before plonking himself down on the table.

Galloway knelt and studied the gashes. "That looks pretty nasty. At least the understructures are undamaged. I'll see what I can do to squeeze him in: I've got a serving man with a damaged voice box and a few others coming in later."

"So I get knocked to the bottom of the list?" Alex snapped.

"I'll do what I can," Galloway said.

"Figures," Alex slid off the table and headed for the door. Joe caught his shoulder. "Let me go."

"We are only trying to help you," Joe began.

"So help me already!" Alex cried. "Don't just put me on the shelf somewhere."

"We're not gonna do that; thing is I got another few Mechas with more serious problems that have to be resolved first," Galloway said.

"I should have stayed in the woods," Alex grumbled, trying to break away again.

Joe grabbed Alex's other hand and sat him down on the table. "You should be glad that I brought you here at all. Either you comply with circumstances, or we may have to let you go."

"The latter doesn't sound bad at all," Alex said, rising.

Galloway grabbed the younger Mecha by the back of the shoulders and pushed him down onto the table. Alex tried to push him away. Joe got on the table and pinned Alex to the table top with his knees and elbows. Galloway took a probe from the breast pocket of his coverall.

"Alex, open your mouth wide, now," Galloway ordered.

Alex complied. "Aaahhhh," he said with a smarmy air.

Galloway inserted the probe into Alex's mouth and pressed the deactivation switch in the back of his throat.

Alex lay still. Joe let out a sigh of relief and climbed down from the table.

"He's a beautiful piece of work," Galloway said, running a hand over Alex's tousled hair.

"I never intended him to have this personality; I was assigned only to the physical design."

"We've all got our edges; Alex just has the hard edges you don't have. You're probably good for each other."

"Perhaps I will soon see it as you do," Joe said.

The word that Alex had returned reached design later that afternoon. As Joe collected some printouts from the large 24X36 inch printer, he overheard some of the other designers nearby.

"Funny he should turn up on Joe's doorstep like that."—"You think it's a homing instinct?"—"Nah, he probably just heard about Joe Masters and decided he'd seek shelter with him."

Later still, at quitting time, Joe went to check on Alex's progress.

He found Alex awake, lying calmly on his side while Arabella, one of the techs, finished replacing a damaged section of dermis, attaching the "skin" to the trunk neurons on the sole of his foot. Alex kept glancing at the girl almost desirously, but she ignored him. As soon as Joe entered the space, Alex stopped eying the girl and looked up at Joe.

"Come to see the rest of the torture?" Alex asked.

"I have only come to see your progress," Joe said.

"He's as uppity as he ever was," the girl said. Why did you have him programmed this way?"

"I only wish I could have had a say in the matter of that area of his construction," Joe said.

Galloway came in at that point. Joe turned from Alex and turned to the chief of repairs.

"Have you scanned his cube?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, we found a few things: he's been imprinted. You know he has two imprint sequences, one for family interaction, the other for, you know…"

"Less innocent interaction?"

"Yeah, and it looks like someone started to imprint _that_ circuit, but they got interrupted. We might have to rewire those circuits."

"Could that explain his antisocial behavior?" Joe asked.

Galloway glanced over Joe's shoulder. "Yeah, but there's more to it than that alone. He's just uppity by his very persona."

"That I will not deny. But is it not excessively so?"

Galloway cracked a grin. "It may have intensified for whatever reason, but it's just part of who he is, just as being basically agreeable is part of who you are."

"What are you sniggering at?" Joe asked.

Galloway turned him around.

Alex had crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at Joe, but he quickly relaxed his face as Joe turned to look at him.

"He dislikes me," Joe observed, incensed.

"Don't let him see it: you'll only encourage him."

That afternoon, Rhiannon set about clearing out one of the spare rooms upstairs, which she'd been using as storage. She took an old cot down from the attic and set it up in one corner.

"Is Alex staying here for good?" David asked, helping carry in some pillows and blankets from the linen closet.

"I hope so: he needs a place to live like you did," she said.

"I hope he stays too. Then he won't have to be scared any more."

She reached out and ruffled David's golden brown hair. "You'd be good for him."

Joe came home with Alex a little later. The younger Mecha wasn't walking as gingerly as he had before.

David ran to meet them with open arms. He hugged Alex almost as warmly as he hugged Joe. Alex peeled him off.

"Watch it with the hug, kid," Alex grumbled.

"I only want you to like me," David said.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Alex muttered.

"Mommy and I got a room ready for you," David said, tagging along behind Alex as the taller Mecha headed for the living room.

Rhiannon came downstairs at this point. "How's Alex?" she asked Joe.

"He is as persistently annoyed and annoying as ever," Joe declared, hanging up his coat and hat. After the New Year, he had begun wearing an old-style pearl gray fedora, which only helped to make him look more Orga-like than ever.

"Well, at least he's consistent," she said. "How'd the diagnostic go?"

"He has been imprinted, and it would appear someone tried to imprint him as a lover."

"Can he do that?"

"Yes, the contractee required it."

"Have you contacted his family?"

"Galloway is doing so."

"Remember what I said about David: don't get too attached; his imprinters might decide they want him back."

"You will have no cause for that brand of concern: he has no interest in bonding with me. I believe he despises me."

She looked into the living room and drew Joe away from the doorway. "I contacted Irmgard Casvar."

"And what had she to say?" Joe asked, with a touch of cold disdain.

"She claims we stole David. She's trying to file suit against us."

"But we have hard evidence against her."

"Maybe it's time we turned Galloway's disks over to the police."

Joe laughed humorlessly.

"What?"

"In so doing, I may be avenging myself of the false accusations leveled against me by Alfred Bevins."

Saturday, Rhiannon brought Alex along with her and David. Joe and Galloway had to attend to another matter related to David's sufferings: reporting the crime to the police and handing over the disks with the scans from David's cube.

"So now, if she tries to file suit, she'll find her claim crashing up against the abuse charges," Galloway said, as they drove back to Calla's office.

"We can only hope it will thusly," Joe said.

"I like Alex,' David told Calla, as they sat on opposite ends of the couch in the playroom of her office. "But he's a little scary."

"Why is he a little scary?" she asked.

"He's not very nice to Daddy. At least he listens to Mommy most of the time, and he's okay with me. But I wish he could be nice to Daddy."

"Well, it could be that Alex has to get himself used to being with your family."

"I hope he can stay and find some way to be happy."

"Why do you want that for him?"

"Mommy and Daddy gave me a home for real, and that makes me happy. So if Alex stayed with us, maybe he could be happy, too."

"That might work. But Alex may have a family of his own that's looking for him."

David's large blue eyes grew wide with dismay. "You mean he can't stay?"

"We'll have to find that out; but you don't have to worry about that. You just help Alex feel welcome, no matter how it turns out."

"Okay, Calla." David hugged her, then bounced down from the sofa and went out to join Rhiannon in the waiting room.

Calla went to her office to take off the tiny recorder she wore under her blouse, took out the cassette and put it into a box marked "David Masters".

The door opened, then shut.

"Come on in, Alex," she encouraged.

The door popped open, then Alex stepped into the room, looking about him as if looking for the quickest way out.

"Hello, Alex."

Alex pushed the door closed behind him. She offered him a chair, but he merely glanced at it. The shirt and pants he wore clearly belonged to Joe: they didn't fit him well, though they were long enough. He was about the same height and build as Joe, but he was scrawnier and far less attractive.

"Please, sit down," she offered.

"I'd rather stand," he shot back.

"Well, if that makes you feel more comfortable…so, David tells me you're having a few troubles adjusting to your new surroundings."

"That fiberhead had no right to pick me up."

"What makes you say that?"

"I was doing all right."

"You were wandering in the woods and on the streets; you were damaged beyond your ability to repair yourself. You could have been destroyed by anyone who took it into their head to heave a brick at you."

"I could have found my way around. I was on my way to Rouge City, to find work there. They're looking for things like me."

"But what I find curious was that you ended up on the doorstep of Joe Masters. He designed you, he's done a lot to fight for the freedom of your species. I think you wanted him to help you."

"Don't be ridiculous…you win."

"I wasn't trying to win."

"What else do you want to know?"

"It's not so much me who wants to know, but Joe and Rhiannon want to know it: I'm only here to help them help you. Now, what made you leave the home of your imprinter Miss Kate Hilliard?"

Alex dropped his gaze to the floor and scuffed one toe across the rug. "She got a younger model to pleas her husband. They couldn't have kids because of a health condition he has. So they bought a kid model. They started ignoring me. It was always 'Tiffy did this' and 'Oh cute, Tiffy did that'. I disappeared once to test them. They didn't know I was gone until twelve hours later. I doubt they noticed I'm missing now."

"I bet they do. I bet they're wondering where you are."

He glared at her. "Where are the missing Mecha reports that should be all over the 'Net? Why isn't Rogue Retrieval after me? I came all the way from North California to here, and I didn't see a single Rogue Retrieval agent after me."

"That's awful."

"You try being the one who's been overlooked."

"I'm really sorry that it's happening this way."

"Me too."

"It must hurt inside."

"It shouldn't: I'm just a fiberhead, remember?" his voice trembled.

"Go ahead, Alex. You can cry."

Alex wiped his thumbs across his eyes, pushing back the tears.

"I'm all right," he said.

"He wasn't thrown out: he ran away of his own volition," Calla told Joe and Rhiannon.

"In which case, we must contact his family," Joe said.

"But this gets interesting: he pointed out to me that he hasn't heard any missing Mecha reports and Rogue Retrieval hasn't gone after him," Calla said.

"I searched the reports myself: there wasn't anything," Rhiannon said.

"That does not sound good at all," Joe said. With a touch of relief and resignation, he added, "So now, in addition to tracking down Irmgard Casvar, we must find Kate Hilliard and see why she discarded Alex."

Joe found the records of Alex's owners and called them. He got only the answering machine, so he left a message.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hilliard-Kleph? This is Joe Masters of Companionates of Shohola, Pennsylvania. I have located Alex, your missing Mecha. You may contact me at 583-621-1229 in the evening, or you may e-mail me at jmasters at design-dot-companionates-dot-com. Thank you."

He placed the receiver back on the base and cut the transmission.

"Sounds like you didn't get through," Alex's voice said. "Sounds like I'm gonna be here a while."

Joe looked up. "I left a message with them. They have only to reply to it."

"They won't; get used to me."

"I think we must get used to each other," Joe said.

The Casvar case moved fast. Anthony Casvar came forward and gave the police the tapes he had made from the hidden cameras, of Irmgard abusing David.

She did the thing they all expected: she tried to flee the country, but the police caught her in the airport in Philadelphia.

She plead no contest to the charges.

Joe was there at Irmgard's arraignment. She'd put on weight since the time of the memories in David's cube. The courtroom guards had to keep her carefully secured; she'd tried to break away when they were leading her into the courtroom, and they'd had to put a stun belt on her. She accepted the charges and her sentence—ten years, no parole—with sullen silence.

But as soon as the guards started to lead her out, she suddenly turned her bloodshot eyes on Joe.

"Machines can't own machines!" she shouted.

Joe felt relieved that they wouldn't have to deal with Irmgard Casvar for a long time, but her insult still made his electrical impulses run cold.

On the way to the Zipeses' to pick up David and Alex, Rhiannon considered breaking the news to David, a fact she shared with Joe; but they both hesitated, wondering how well he could understand it.

"Perhaps it would ease his healing process, if he knew that his sick mommy can no longer harm him," Joe said.

"It might, and then again it might just open old wounds. You know how emotionally shaky he is," Rhiannon said.

"In that case, perhaps we should break the news to him when he has his next session with Calla."

"That might help; he's gotten so trusting with her. You saw him hug her the last time, didn't you?"

"Yes," Joe replied, smiling at the memory. "There could be no better sign of his progression than that gesture."

When they arrived, Narsie let them in and went to fetch David and Andy, who were playing with Sina and Terry in the family room at the back of the house.

Someone was playing Chopin's "Prelude". The sound seemed to live to be a recording.

Rhiannon looked at Joe. "Music?"

"I have nothing to do with it," Joe replied, pointing toward his left shoulder, then turning his palm to her, open.

The sound came from the sitting room, where Narsie kept her grandmother's rosewood acoustic grand piano. They both tiptoed to the doorway into the sitting room.

Alex sat at the piano, playing, his head bent slightly over the keys. Joe paused in the doorway, head cocked questioningly, yet a look of rapt attention passed over his face.

That someone so prickly could play so divinely…

The spell broke. Alex lifted his hands from the keys and looked up.

"Narsie gave me permission; she said it needed to be played.

"You play it excellently," Joe said.

"I suppose you specified music appreciation when you built me," Alex added, getting up.

"Your imprinter did. Rhiannon and I heard your first public concert at the American Roboticists convention several years ago," Joe said.

"Oh yeah, that one. You and a hundred thousand other roboticists,' Alex said.

At this point, Narsie came in with David and Andy.

"Who was playing that pretty music?" David asked.

"I was," Alex said in a clipped voice.

"How was your afternoon, David?" Rhiannon asked.

"It was fun, Mommy," David said.

"Narsie, could I offer you a small proposal?" Joe asked as Rhiannon helped David into his coat.

Narsie glanced out into the hallway, at Alex, who shuffled on his anorak. "Does it have to do with Alex and the piano?"

"It does. I wondered, if Alex can become a part of our family, would you consider selling us your piano for his use?"

"Oh, sure. I can't play it to save my life: I didn't practice enough. I was keeping it for Sina if she ever showed an interest in it, but she seems to like her books better."

"And then everyone shall be happy," Joe said.

"But first you gotta see if Alex's imprinter wants him back."

Joe eyed Alex askance, then leaned a little closer to Narsie. "Speaking to you in confidence, there are times when I wonder whether we should admit him to our family."

"Aw, he just has a few rough edges to smooth over. He's great when he's playing the piano."

"That may very well be the only time when he does behave."

"All the more reason to let you take the piano."

" _After_ we determine his status in our family."

The next day, Joe found a message in his inbox:

From: K_hilliardkleph

To: jmasters .com

Subject: Alex

Dear Mr. Masters,

Thank you for contacting us about Alex. We're glad to hear that you found him.

Unfortunately, because I have become so busy with my daughter Tiffany, I was unable to maintain Alex as well as I should have. I have been ill with meningitis and was unable to file a missing Mecha report.

If its possible, could you take care of Alex for me? In some ways he has too much of a problem for me. My husband and I were even considering having Alex returned to Companionates, but he disappeared before we could take the necessary steps…

He only skim read the last paragraphs of the message. The shallowness of it all made him clench his teeth.

He reached for the phone handset, opened the dialer on the desktop and hit the speed dial number for his home number. The line rang a moment and picked up.

"Hello, Masters' residence." Ree's voice.

"Ree, it is I. I just received a message from Kate Hilliard-Kleph, Alex's imprinter."

"At least you got that much, I've called and left three messages on their voice mail."

"I am about to forward it to you…now. When you read it, you will know exactly why Alex is so difficult of nature."

He heard Rhiannon rustling about on the other end. "Okay, I got it…I've opened it and…." A long pause passed. "Gad!"

"Have you found the root of the matter?"

"Yeah, I can see why Alex walked out like he did. This woman sounds like she forgets to reboot her brain every morning."

"I had similar thoughts."

"I guess this means a simple matter of transferring papers to our name."

"And applying for an identity card for him."

"Well, that's the next priority."

"In which case, he will soon be an official part of our family. I can easily obtain his imprint protocol."

"Hey, Joe, take it slow! I got a few strings to pull first."

"I referred to the next step after your pulling of strings—that figure of speech makes one think of a marionette."

"Guess it's not the most appropriate metaphor."

"You meant no harm by it."

When they had hung up, Joe looked up at his framed photo of his family. A fourth member…what would Alex say to that?

 _Are you up to it, old man?_

"Someone who builds a Mecha only to start ignoring it doesn't deserve to have one in the first place, much less a second one," Rhiannon said as she washed her dishes that evening.

"No wonder that Alex feels as he does and that he wants to strike out on his own," Joe remarked, leaning against the draining board of the sink.

"Should we break the news to him?" Rhiannon asked.

"You won't have to," Alex's voice said to them. Rhiannon turned; Joe looked up.

Alex stood in the kitchen doorway, his face trying to be a mask of cold indifference, but tears showed at the outer corners of his eyes.

"I saw the email from my mother," Alex said. "I guess that means I'm stuck here."

"You could not be stuck with a better family. We have all been outcast one way or other," Joe said, approaching Alex and putting his hands on the younger Mecha's shoulders.

Alex tried to push Joe away, but the older Mecha put his arms about him drawing him close.

"Don't hug me, old man, or my tears will gush out," Alex grumbled. But Rhiannon noticed he didn't resist Joe's touch any more.

Early Saturday morning, Galloway brought Narsie's piano over. Rhiannon woke up hearing Joe and Lutwyn and Galloway's voices downstairs.

She got up and dressed quickly. She found Alex and David and Andy at the top of the stairs, peering down.

"Something up?" she asked.

"Something's going on downstairs," David said.

"Well, let's go down and find out," she said.

The three of them tiptoed down the stairs (David carried Andy), just as Joe came upstairs.

"So you would find our your surprise so soon?" Joe asked with a clearly fake sneer. He put a hand on Alex's shoulder and led him down to the living room. Rhiannon and David followed them down.

"The anniversary of your inception is but three weeks away, but perhaps you would prefer to have your present now," Joe said, leading Alex into the living room. Lutwyn was opening the lid of the piano and propping it open, while Galloway came in from outside with a box of sheet music.

Alex stepped close to the instrument and ran his hand over the rosewood sounding board. He looked up at Lutwyn.

"You didn't have to do this," Alex said.

"I know I didn't have to. So that's why I did it," Lutwyn said.

"Play something, Alex," David said.

"Okay, okay…does anyone have a request?" Alex said, sitting down on the bench.

"Do you know MacDowell's 'To a Wild Rose'?" Rhiannon asked.

Alex replied by flexing his fingers and setting his hands to the keyboard. He paused a moment, then played the tune, an ethereal melody as delicate as the flower of the title. Rhiannon realized she was holding her breath, and with no small wonder: that a creature so cantankerous and even crass could play it so exquisitely…he handled the melody as if he handled the fragile petals of a blossom.

At the last soft note, Alex held the keys down, letting the sound dissolve like a mist. He drew his hands away and looked up, clearly seeking approval.

David started clapping enthusiastically, which got everyone else applauding. Alex smiled thinly, one of the first times Rhiannon could recall seeing him smile.

Galloway took Joe aside and put a large red plastic envelope in his hand. "You might need this."

Joe turned the packet over.

WARNING: IMPRINT PROTOCOL

Joe tried to hand the envelope back to Galloway. "Perhaps it is too soon for this: Rhiannon only began the work of transferring his papers to us."

"You keep 'em, Joe; for all intents and purposes, he's your boy now."

After David's session with Calla, Joe took Alex shopping for some clothes of his own.

"Not that I begrudge your borrowing my things," Joe explained to Alex. "Doubtlessly you would much prefer to be able to call your own the shirt on your back."

"Yeah, they probably tossed all my stuff anyway," Alex grumbled.

"Why did you not take a few things with you?"

Alex shrugged. "Why not? I was property to them. Property can't own property."

Joe turned Alex around to face him. "You are not property. This is a direct order: You are to stop thinking of yourself as property and start thinking of yourself as an individual, as a person."

Alex glanced around at the passersby in the shopping mall. "Try telling that to _them_."

"Telling that to the Orgas happens to be one of my principal chosen tasks."

"So is that why you took me in?" Alex slid his shoulder free of Joe's grasp. "Because I'm useful to your experiment?"

"No. Helping you took first precedent."

Alex had nothing to say to this, but his silence was not brooding.

They picked out a few dress shirts, a few flannel shirts, several pairs of pants—khaki, corduroys, denims. Alex chose a gray suit.

"You would look better wearing navy blue: it would bring out the color of your eyes," Joe suggested.

"I like the gray," Alex insisted.

Joe nearly objected, but he overrode this: it was not worth arguing with Alex over.

They passed a music store on the way out. Alex looked at Joe. "Will the budget let me buy some staff line paper?" he asked the older Mecha.

"Yes, but may I ask why you need it?"

"I had a few ideas for a composition."

"You can compose?"

"Of course I can," Alex snipped.

Later that evening, Alex sat in the living room playing the main melody of Grieg's Piano Concerto. David and Andy sat under the piano, listening. Joe and Rhiannon both listened as well, while Rhiannon washed the dishes.

"David likes him," she said.

"The question is: does Alex like David?" Joe pointed out.

"I think Alex could like David if he'd work at it," she said. "Should we imprint him tonight?"

"So you saw Galloway hand me those papers. No, he has yet to acclimate to us. And something so final should wait until his papers have passed," Joe said.

"Right," she said, smiling. "I just want him to get used to being here. He's been through so much."

"That is why we would do well to wait."

"Mm, and you ought to think seriously about finding a backer for your grand endeavor. We can fit only one more stray in our house before we start getting crowded."

Joe kneaded her shoulder with his fingertips. "That is why you are good for me: you help me keep my grand ideas rooted in reality."

To be continued…

Afterword:

I am going to make up for my tardiness on this one and I will do everything in my power to get a chapter out each week from now on, cross my heartbeat simulator and hope to be destroyed. Next chapter will be a mixture of light and darkness: Joe has a few funny squabbles with Alex…but Irmgard Casvar is not going to take her sentence lying down.

Literary Easter Eggs:

Irmgard Casvar in court—Another detail drawn from real life. The day I drafted this chapter, I had the minor misfortune to walk into an area where the police were arresting two people on drug possession and disorderly conduct charges. One of the perps was a female, who reminded me weirdly of Irmgard Casvar, so I put a little of the female's attitude into Irmgard here.

"Don't hug me…"—I based this line on a line from a "Calvin and Hobbes" Christmas comic strip.


	8. Supporter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J. M.J.+

+J. M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

This chapter took fooorrreeevvveeerr to write for the not so simple reason that I just started working a temp job packing boxes for a print shop that specializes in store displays and such and I've been adjusting to a new schedule (read: trying to find time to write and type!). I'm going to try to make subsequent chapters shorter and therefore easier to finish: I can write during my lunch breaks, but my computer is a desktop, so I have to type it at home. Plus, I roped myself into writing an alternate universe fic based on the movie _Gattaca_ (which see) which is stealing time from this. But on with the magnum opus…In this chapter, things start to move toward the establishment of the Mecha Haven and another of my original characters, Madison "Maddy" Grachek from "Toys out of the Nursery", returns, all grown up and determined to right the wrongs of the past.

Disclaimer:

See chapter I

Chapter VIII: Supporter

"Your best bet for drumming up support for your grand endeavor is to go to Madison Grachek-Tyrell," Lutwyn told Joe as they sat in Lutwyn's office during the lunch hour.

"Might he be related to the late Kingston Tyrell, the titanium mine owner?" Joe asked, his pocket notebook open on his lap, the pencil poised in his fingers.

" _She's_ his widow, she inherited the business from him. She's dripping with wealth, but she's chosen to live simply for a woman of her status, for the sake of better helping the CRF." With a sneaky smile, Lutwyn added, "She won't let on about it, but she probably had something to do with the American Mecha Act going through: several Congressmen owe their offices to her support."

"But would someone placed so highly as she heed my plea for assistance?" Joe asked, jotting down the information.

"If there's anyone who would listen to you, she would. She has an especial soft spot for Mechas who have been through more than their fair share of woes."

Joe smiled sadly but mischievously at this. With a faint trace of seduction, he said, "If that is the case, then she might find my proposal—and the Mecha offering it—utterly irresistible."

Lutwyn notified Madison Grachek-Tyrell in advance that a friend and employee of his had a request to make of her. In the meantime, Joe started writing a paper outlining his proposal. But when Lutwyn read the draft of it, he advised a different approach.

"Try not to be so formal; she doesn't bite," Lutwyn said.

"How then am I to approach her?" Joe asked, looking up from the document laid out on the screen of his desk.

"Approach her directly. Just tell her outright that you want her to assist you in fulfilling your dream for your species. Request her permission to call on her," Lutwyn said. "That paper reads too much like a straight business proposal."

Joe looked again at the document. "Perhaps I have become too much of a businessman in my old age." He reached out and touched the delete button on the screen. The document vanished. He looked up at Lutwyn, his eyelids lowered.

"Instead, let me loosen her heart with one of the more innocent of my early talents," he said, smoky-voiced.

Lutwyn gave Joe's shoulder a brotherly squeeze. "There's the Joe I know."

From: jmasters .com

To: madisongt .com

Subject: A not-so-modest proposal

Dear Madame Tyrell,

Perhaps you know me by name as a designer of Mechas or as an agitator for Mecha rights and the author of the Three Laws of Humanics, or if you have read my biography, you may know of the sorrows and successes I have experienced.

Thanks to the technology if imprinting, I have received that most mysterious of Orga abilities, namely, to dream. Amongst the thoughts and notions that swirl in my processors, I have dreamed of a most needed establishment, a sanctuary for the abused and derelict of Mechakind, where they refurbished and repaired and healed of their sorrows, physical and otherwise.

A task like this rests too heavily on my shoulders. I have adopted two young Mechas, both of them abandoned by their former families, but I can hardly shelter many more under the roof I share with them and my wife Rhiannon.

I am told you are a most generous woman, particularly sensitive toward the less fortunate of Mechakind. And so I hold out to you both my hands in supplication for my kind. However you choose to treat this proposal, whether to accept it or set it aside, I will respect your decision. I ask only that you consider all the factors before announcing you choice.

I remain your most respectful and obedient servant,

Joe Masters, ARD

As he walked from the end of their street to their front door, Joe carefully informed his volition centers to avoid the mailpad and even his desktop once he got home. But something happened that made a second reminder unnecessary.

As he keyed the smartlock on the front door before unlocking the second lock, something brushed against his ankles. He heard a whirring that he knew did not come from his inner mechanisms. He looked down.

A cat rubbed her head against the cuffs of his trousers. He stooped down to get a better look at her.

The cat had the cream and dark brown markings of Siamese cat, but something about her coat looked too orderly.

A Mecha cat, he realized.

"You've come to an ideal place," Joe said. He stood up, unlocked the door and let the sleek, furry little creature enter first

He found Rhiannon in the kitchen, making her supper, while David sat at the table, molding something out of clay.

The cat nosed about the floor, approaching Rhiannon's ankles. Rhiannon looked down.

"Well, what's this?" she asked, kneeling down.

"I found her upon the doorstep, or rather, she found me," Joe said.

"What a pretty kitty!" David cried, hopping down from his chair and joining his mother. Andy waddled after him.

"She might have strayed…" Rhiannon started to say, but her eyes widened.

"Perhaps she has, or perhaps she was abandoned," Joe said, running his hand over the cat's back. The little creature arched up against Joe's palm, purring gladly. David reached for her tail, but Andy pushed David's hand away gently.

Alex stuck his head in at the kitchen doorway. "What's that there?" he asked. He stepped into the room for a better look. "Oh, an Easy Living Cat."

"Your voice lacks enthusiasm," Joe noted.

"The Hilliards had one," Alex said. "It hated me."

"Why? What makes you say that?" Joe asked.

"It avoided me," Alex said, turning and heading for the living room.

"Alex, I'm about to have dinner," Rhiannon said.

"You know I don't eat," Alex grumbled.

"Yes, but if you recall, when we took you in we asked you to join the rest of us at the table," Joe said.

"Yeah, I recall it," Alex muttered, stepping back into the kitchen. The cat went up to Alex, sniffing at his shoes as he walked to his chair. He turned the chair around front to back and plunked himself down on it sidewise.

The cat jumped up into Alex's lap and settled there, looking about her with big sapphire eyes.

"Maybe we should call her Pretty Kitty," David said, sitting down next to Alex.

"What an original name," Alex sneered.

Andy looked at Alex as the little bear clambered up into his chair next to David. "David likes the name."

"Maybe you should name it, Alex," Joe suggested, sitting down at the head of the table. He glanced down into Alex's lap, at the cat, which had curled up, looking as if she might go to sleep.

"No, you found it, Joe, you can name it," Alex said.

"She must have been tossed out: Mecha cats aren't supposed to stray," Rhiannon said.

"Maybe she's malfunctioning," Alex suggested.

"If we can keep her, perhaps we should call her Basteth," Joe suggested. The cat looked up as if she liked the name.

"What kind of name is that?" David asked.

"It is an Egyptian name, that of the goddess of cats and of dance," Joe said.

Rhiannon winked at Joe. "I guess she came to the right place."

Later, as they nestled together in bed, Rhiannon asked Joe a question that had been in the back of her mind.

"Did you ever send that message to Madison Grachek-Tyrell?"

"I have sent it, but I obliged myself to avoid the mailpad or the inbox of the desktop so I could focus my attention to my personal obligations," Joe said.

"Good choice," she said, rubbing his shoulder.

The door creaked open. Something jumped up on the bed, landing on Joe's stomach. He tensed for a second, but he saw Basteth's blue eyes gleaming at him from the darkness. She let out a little peeping meow.

"Do you mind if she stays?" Joe asked.

"Nah, I'm certainly not allergic to Mecha cats," Rhiannon said.

The next morning, when Joe checked his messages on arriving at work, he nearly cried out with joy.

Reply-to jmasters .com

From: madisongt .com

Subject: RE: A not-so-modest proposal

Dear Mr. Masters (and I insist on calling you Mr.),

You message came as a complete surprise; I have been following your career for quite some time (my late husband bought one of your early paintings). And your idea for a Mecha Haven I find most exciting.

Would you like to discuss this with me at length, face to face? I would be happy to have you and your family to visit me here in Cheyenne, Wyoming, then we can all get acquainted with each other. You name the date and time: I am largely retired now and I can very easily adjust my schedule to accommodate you.

I hope to hear—and see—more from you very soon.

Sincerely,

Madison Grachek-Tyrell

Joe hit the forward button and sent a copy to Rhiannon.

Later that afternoon, in a hallway of the complex, Joe met up with Galloway.

"I have found another Mecha, or rather she has found me," Joe said.

"Uh oh, I don't like the sound of that 'she'," Galloway said. "Does Rhiannon know about this?"

"Yes, she does. She even let her sleep with us."

"Well, if it's a kid model, that's one thing, but…"

"Have no concern: it is a Mecha cat, an Easy Living model. We wondered if you might have a minute tonight to come by and examine her."

"Oh sure, I haven't seen one of those in a while. My cousin's wife had one, since she was allergic to real cats. But, uh, have you done your homework on this one?"

"I have: it appears that the owners discarded her for reasons unknown."

"Weird. Wonder if someone died and left the cat to someone that didn't want it, so they pitched it out."

"If they did, then they know not how agreeable a creature they cast aside."

Galloway came over that nigh after Rhiannon's supper. When he examined Basteth, he found her in top-notch condition for a possible discard.

"Can Basteth stay with us for real?" David asked.

Galloway scratched the cat behind her ears. "I don't see any reason why she can't." He stopped scratching: Basteth butted his hand with her head.

"As long as she stays out of my room," Alex said, walking past the living room door with a plastic recycling bin of papers.

"Why? What's wrong with her?" Galloway asked.

"Nothing," Alex shrugged and went out."

"Alex said something about his first family having a cat that ignored him," Rhiannon said.

"Awww, poor guy. Either he scared it off, or the thing was malfunctioning," Galloway said. "I see you got him doing recyclables detail."

"Yes, we assigned him several chores about the house; the allowance he earns for it he is putting toward a surround sound system for his room," Joe explained.

"I'm helping him out," David said.

"I bet you are, sport," Galloway said.

"Yeah, Alex complained that my system down here was too tinny," Rhiannon said.

"Have you imprinted him yet?" Galloway asked.

Rhiannon and Joe looked at each other.

"You know how the legal department has to put that label on imprint papers 'Do NOT imprint if you are uncertain of your emotions'?" Rhiannon said. "We're still not sure, especially since his adoption papers haven't gone through yet."

"Well, that's a good reason to wait, but don't wait too long after you get the papers," Galloway said, packing up his scanners.

"And what I want to know is if imprinting him will get rid of that _attitude_ ," Rhiannon said. "Man, people used to complain that I had an attitude, and I know I had one, but I don't think it was anything like his."

"You would be as unhappy as he is if your first imprinter took no notice when you disappeared for weeks," Joe pointed out.

"I hope you aren't avoiding the inbox again," Rhiannon said to Joe later, as they got ready for bed.

"I am not, and I had no need to," Joe said. "Have you checked your messages recently?"

"Not since this morning, why?"

"Madison Grachek-Tyrell wants to meet with us, you, the boys and I, face to face regarding the grand endeavor."

"That's great," she said, hugging him. "Did she say when?"

"She left that to our discretion."

"You'd better decide when soon, in case she should forget. And if she wants to meet me as well," she let him go and reached for her planner on the bureau and opened the calendar. "I think I can manage this weekend."

"The sooner we meet with her, we shall be that much sooner to beginning the work," Joe said. "I shall notify her first thing in the morning."

She darted a glance at him as she set the planner back on the bureau. "Do you mean first thing in the daylight, or first thing in the wee hours when I'm asleep?"

"I would advise you not to lead me into such temptation," he said with an astute smile.

"Yeah, You're the expert on it," she replied.

Joe held off till the daylight to send the reply to Madison Grachek-Tyrell. But through the rest of that day, he had to keep resetting his volition centers to keep himself from peeking at his messages.

At the end of the day, he let himself check the inbox.

Reply-to jmasters .com

From: madisongt .com

Subject: RE: Shall we meet this weekend?

Dear Mr. Masters (or would you rather that I called you Joe?),

I would be delighted if you could come here to Cheyenne this weekend. Call me when you arrive, and I shall send a car the next morning, Saturday, to pick up you and your family.

I'm really looking forward to meeting you.

Sincerely,

Madison Grachek-Tyrell

Joe forwarded the message to Rhiannon before he gathered up his things and headed home.

"So did you make all the travel arrangements?" Rhiannon asked him when he got home.

"I have arranged everything we shall need," he said. "Our flight, our accommodations, everything is in order. Lutwyn and Narsie have agreed to take Basteth for the weekend."

"You've got one up on me: Nahmer's trying to get me to cover a case over the weekend. Mo'reen agreed to take it, but the old skinflint won't hear of it."

"He seems to bear down upon you."

"Yeah, especially since I started working from home."

As Rhiannon had her supper, Joe broke the news to 'the boys'.

"What of you think of going on a trip to Wyoming this weekend?" Joe asked.

Alex cocked his head slightly. David smiled, excited, but his eyes looked a little concerned.

"What's out there?" Alex grumbled.

"It is a long story, but I shall be as brief in its telling as I can be," Joe said. "You know of the differences between Orgas and Mechas."

Alex rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it."

David put a hand on Alex's arm. "I don't think you want to know." Alex shook him off.

"Some time ago, I thought of establishing a place, a Haven, where damaged and abused Mechas could go, where they could find safety and protection from the ignorant and unkind Orgas that had hurt them."

"Like a home for them? Like here?" David asked.

Joe smiled. "Yes, only much larger, a place where many, many Mechas could find refuge.

"I have been told of a lady who lives in Wyoming, who could help me to find the land and the money and the materials to build this Haven. And this weekend, she wants to meet us as a family."

"All of us?" Alex said, lowering one eyebrow.

"Yes, Alex, all of us."

"Is she nice?" David asked.

"I am told she is very nice," Joe said.

"Have you ever been on a trip before, David?" Rhiannon asked.

"No," David said.

"It'll be fun."

Friday evening found them boarding a hyperjet to Cheyenne. David saw the trip as an adventure, but he still stuck close to Joe. Alex took it all with his usual simmering indifference.

The flight took only two hours, which brought them to the hotel by 20.30.

However, they found the room was not quite what Joe had arranged for: he had requested a two-bedroom suite, but instead, they had a studio room with two double beds, and unfortunately there were no other rooms.

"So much for desiring privacy," Joe said, with resignation.

They settled into the room as best as they could and unpacked their stuff. They had an early start the next morning, so Rhiannon tucked David into the one bed, with Andy.

Alex had kept grimly too himself in a corner, studying the piano reduction score of Terry Riley's nine hour _Orfeo_ , but Rhiannon touched his arm.

"Time to settle down," she said.

"I still have most of this to go over," he said. "And just where am I supposed to 'sleep'?"

"You will have to share the bed with David," Joe said.

Alex grumbled something, but he set aside the score, got his pajamas and went into the bathroom to change. Eh came out a moment later he came out and got into bed beside David and Andy.

A few moments later, after Rhiannon had brushed her teeth, she and Joe turned in for the night.

"Alas, no sensuous engagement for us this night," Joe whispered in his wife's ear as he slipped his arm about his waist from behind.

"Oh, I'll survive," she said, stroking his hand.

He kissed the back of her neck, then drew back, letting her settle down on her pillow. He felt her relax in his arms as she fell asleep.

He often got a lot of thinking done while Rhiannon slept. The gentle rhythm of her breathing and the soft pulse of her heartbeat provided a soothing soundtrack.

He was just forming his speech to Madison Grachek Tyrell, when he heard something from the other side of the room.

Something rustled. Then the springs of the other bed creaked.

"Hey," Alex grunted.

"What?" asked David.

"This is my side of the bed."

"What did you say?"

"I don't want you or that fuzzball on my side of the bed."

"Is that your side of the bed?"

"Of course it is: I'm on it, but now you are, so get over on your side of the bed."

"But nobody said which side of the bed is whose."

" _I_ just did. Now move over on your side of the bed."

"Why should I move?"

"Simple: I don't want you or that fuzzball touching my body."

"I'm not touching your body," David said.

"I am not touching you, either," Andy added.

"Sure you are, your paw is on my pajamas."

Rhiannon stirred. "Wha's goin' on?" she mumbled.

"The siblings are being rivals," Joe said. He got up and approached the other bed. "Light, one," he ordered the SmartLamp. It dimmed on.

Alex glared up at Joe, lying turned away from David.

"What is this arguing about?" Joe asked.

Alex jerked his thumb at David. "He's too close to me, he's on my side of the bed."

"I only wanted to snuggle up to him," David said.

"I can't think with him all over me, or with that fuzzball tickling me," Alex snapped.

"Unfortunately, you have to share this bed; inconveniences such as this will happen, so, in this case, you will have to tolerate each other's presence."

Alex grumbled something that sounded like "Big deal". David looked a little dejected.

"Your mother needs her rest; so, shall we keep quiet for her sake?" Joe asked.

"I will, Daddy," David said.

"Yeah, sure," Alex grumbled into the pillow.

"Light, zero," Joe said. The light went out; Joe went back to the other bed.

"Peace in the valley," Rhiannon mumbled.

Next morning, Alex's misbehavior didn't stop. Joe later wondered if Alex meant it as "payback".

One Orga habit that Joe had picked up was washing his hands, which he performed more as a meditative ritual than as part of routine cleanliness. The water caressed the receptors in the dermis of his palms, the inside of his fingers, helping settle the humming in his processors and the slight jangling that had started in his conductors.

As he stood there, meditating, he glanced up to see in the mirror Alex's reflection, as he stood slouched against the doorframe.

"Why are you _doing_ that?" Alex demanded.

"It's what I do to settle my neurons," Joe said.

"Whatever," Alex muttered, going away.

A moment later, Alex was back, his cheeks bulged with something, and trying not to smirk.

"Hm, _hm_ ," Alex teased, singsong.

"Alex, what do you have in your mouth?" Joe asked.

"HMm, _Hmm_ ," Alex twitted.

"Whatever you have in your mouth, it does not belong there. Alex, spit it out," Joe ordered.

 _bbPPWwwwuuuutttt!_

Alex spat a mouthful of water right in Joe's face, drenching him.

"You've done it now," Joe said, reaching for Alex. The younger Mecha ran away, laughing.

"Hey, what's going on in there!" Rhiannon called from the other room.

Joe rushed out of the bathroom, but he couldn't spot Alex in the room. But Andy had his furry head under the boys' bed.

"He went under the bed," Rhiannon said. "What happened to you? You're soaked."

"Alex spat water in my face," Joe said.

"I thought so. I turned my back for a minute and my bottle of water was half empty."

"Alex, come out from under the bed," Andy said.

"Go away, fuzzball," said Alex's voice, under the bed.

"You were unkind to Daddy."

"Well, I don't have to answer to _you_."

Joe got down on the floor and put Andy aside. He lifted the bedspread. "No, but you have to answer to me, young man." he reached in and drew Alex out. Alex tried to shove him away, but Joe was too quick for him.

He stood up, drawing Alex with him.

"Come to think of it, I don't have to answer to you, either," Alex retorted. "You're not my real father."

Joe was about to argue that, but he realized Alex was right in one respect. "There is little time now for me to reprimand you, but do not think that means you got off easily."

After Rhiannon had her breakfast, they headed out into the hotel lobby to await the car Mrs. Grachek-Tyrell would send for them.

A moment later, a gleaming black cruiser pulled up to the front door. The door slid open of itself.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Masters and family," said a pleasant, androgynous voice from the interior. "I am a Hermes 2225 SmartCar. Mrs. Madison Grachek-Tyrell sent me here to bring you to her residence."

Rhiannon grinned at Joe. SmartCars were a rarity. Joe helped her in first, then David and Alex; once he had climbed in after them, the door slid shut.

"Pretty posh," Alex remarked, running his hand over the velour cover of the set. Andy nudged his hand

"Alex, your safety belt," Andy said.

"Oh, beat it." But Alex put it on anyway.

"Our journey to Ashton Heights will take about thirty minutes, barring unforeseen conditions," the voice informed them, as they pulled out of the lot into the road.

"Mr. car-voice, do you have a name?" David asked.

"Mrs. Grachek-Tyrell just calls me Hermes," the voice replied, with a humorous lilt.

"That's a nice name," David said.

"Thank you," Hermes replied.

They hit a knot of traffic, but the car pulled down another road, taking an alternate route.

"As you may have seen, we some road congestion and so we will be taking a different road," Hermes said.

"We noticed," Alex grumbled. Thankfully, Hermes ignored this remark.

The road brought them out of the city into the countryside. They turned onto a road that wound in and around and over hills into valleys, and back up slopes which grew steeper.

They pulled onto a side road flanked with tall hedges. A gate across the path slid back, letting them continue.

At length, they drew up before a low-built house half-hidden by cedars and small redwoods.

The door slid back. "I hope you enjoyed your journey," Hermes said. "And I hope you have a pleasant visit here."

"Thank you very, very much," Joe said. "You have been an excellent vehicle."

"You're welcome; I'm glad to be of service to you," Hermes replied. He pulled away only when they had gone up to the house.

As they approached the house, the front doors slid open like the doors of a traditional Japanese house.

A silver-haired butler-Mecha stepped forward. "Mr. and Mrs. Joe Masters and sons?" he asked in a slightly clipped voice with a British accent.

"That we are," Joe replied.

"Won't you please come in? Mrs. Grachek-Tyrell is expecting you." He stepped aside and let them enter. He took their coats and handed them to a small, dark houseboy Mecha, then led them into the front room.

"She will be just a minute," the butler informed them, then went out.

"If you think that I am an old model, Alex, that butler is older even than I," Joe said. Alex merely sniffed.

The sliding doors of the sitting room opened and a tall woman in a midnight blue dress entered. Her short hair was silver-white with age, but her face hardly showed her years, not a spot, hardly a wrinkle. Her ice blue eyes had a piercing yet a caressing quality. She carried herself almost like a queen, but she had a gentle simplicity to her bearing. As he stood up, Joe felt he ought to bow to her.

But Mrs. Grachek-Tyrell looked at him a little sidewise and smiled, breaking the spell. Her face glowed with a soft inner warmth that lit the whole room.

"So you're Joe Masters, the young fellow who devised the Three Laws of Organics?" she said, extending her hand to him.

He took it and turned it over. "I am he," Joe said, raising her hand to his lips. "And you are Mrs. Grachek-Tyrell?"

"Oh, just call me Madison," she said, squeezing his finger before releasing them. She smiled at Rhiannon. "And you're Riana?"

"It's Rhiannon."

Madison pretended to slap her forehead. "Of course! Like the wise woman of the Welsh legends."

"And a wise woman she is," Joe said.

"And a lucky one, too." Madison bent down to David's level. "And you are…?"

"I'm David," David replied.

"Hello, David. And who's your friend here?"

"This is Andy."

"Hello, Andy," Madison said, putting out her fingertips to Andy.

"Hello, Madison," Andy said, touching her hand with his paw.

Alex let out a throat-clearing sort of sound. Madison straightened up. "And who are you, young fellow?"

"I'm Alex."

She put out her hand to him. "Are you Joe's brother or his son?"

"I'm neither one." He took her hand somewhat slackly. Rhiannon noticed him looking up and down Madison.

"We're in the process of adopting Alex," Rhiannon said.

"So, I heard from Lutwyn Zipes and from your message that you want to establish a Haven for abused and abandoned Mechas?" Madison asked, when they were all seated.

"It is a dream I have had for at least four years now," Joe said.

"What gave you this idea?"

"It is a long story." He briefly told her about his own sufferings at Orga hands, about losing Jane and finding David and Alex.

"You may have lost a love, but you gained a family," Madison said. "A beautiful family."

"Thank you," Joe said, beaming. "But what of you? What led you to help Mechas, aside from the fact that your company supplies titanium and aluminum to the factories?"

Madison drew a long breath. "It's a shorter story than yours, but it's a sadder one. But you need to hear it if we are to understand each other.

"When I was a little girl, I had a nanny-Mecha looking after me while my mother worked and my father was abroad as an archaeologist. Babette, that was her name, was my best friend before I started school. But my father, after he came back from Africa, didn't like having her about the house. My mother didn't tell me until years later, but he used to hit Babette when I was at school."

"Pardon my intrusion, but did Babette have blue eyes and chestnut colored hair?" Joe asked.

"Yes, she did. Why?"

"I just was curious."

Madison continued. "One day, Babette disappeared. My father said she simply wandered away, but we knew she wouldn't have done that unless she was seriously malfunctioning. I cried for her for days, because I missed her and because I was afraid for her." she took a handkerchief from her pocket and blotted her eyes.

"Did you ever know what became of her?" Rhiannon asked.

Madison shook her head. "No. We had missing Mecha alerts posted on the 'Net, but no one ever found her. Or, if they did, they neglected to tell us."

Joe held up one finger. "I believe I know what became of your Babette." He paused. "I saw her when the Flesh Fair captured me, when I escaped. She, alas, never knew this fortune."

"Oh no," Madison said, choked. She drew a ragged breath. Rhiannon got up and went to her side, putting her arm about the older woman's shoulders. David hopped down from his chair, ran to her and climbed into her lap.

"It's all right, Madison, you can cry if you have to," David said.

Before Joe could add his consolation, Alex got up and put his hand on Madison's shoulder. "Hey, let her go. She's not hurting any more."

"You're right: it's best to take this energy and these feelings and use them to help the Mechas who still need help," Madison said.

Recovering, she said to Joe, "You'll need someone to plan all this, someone to help you find a suitable location, find and buy the land, hire an architect, hire the contractors, find people to staff it. We'll have to make the facility as self-supporting as possible. It's a huge undertaking."

"The Mecha inhabitants could work on maintaining the facility and so earn their keep until we can find home and/or suitable employment for them," Joe said.

"Making your grand endeavor become a reality is more complicated than you expected," Madison said. "I can help you financially to some extent, and I know people who could help you organize it all, but as well-heeled as I am, the resources aren't limitless."

"I knew this could not be. For a number of years, I have been setting aside portions of my earnings in savings against the day this project came to be a reality," Joe said, "But I doubt they are sizable enough to help meet the costs."

"That's a very generous and humble thing to do. But your best bet would be to apply to the government for a grant," Madison said. "I could help you write the proposal."

"And perhaps you could use your influence with the higher circles of government to ease the process," Joe said.

"Who told you I had any influence in government?" Madison snapped, pretending to be indignant.

"Lutwyn Zipes told me," Joe replied innocently.

"I'll have to have a word or two with that young whippersnapper," she growled, smiling.

They talked for a while longer about the grand endeavor and how it might impact the two halves of the species, perhaps even effectively bridging the gulf of strife between them. But somehow, Madison deftly turned the conversation toward the Masterses' trip to Cheyenne.

"Alex and I have to share a bed in the hotel room," David put in, somewhat artlessly.

"Davviiidddd!" Alex snarled through clenched teeth.

"Oh, that must be comfortable for all of you," Madison said. "Joe, Rhiannon, please, humor a crazy old woman: you can spend your weekend here with me. There's plenty of room in the house and we can get to know each other better this way."

"We have infringed too much upon your hospitality already," Joe protested.

"No, I insist, and I'm accustomed to getting my own way," Madison said, with a self-deprecating smirk.

"And I am accustomed to acquiescing to the demands of those accustomed to getting their own way," Joe said.

They went back to the hotel to pack their things while Hermes, the car, waited in the parking lot.

When they returned to the house, Madison herself led them to the guest rooms, a little suite all its own, very like a guest house attached to the main house. The boys had a room of their own—with separate beds—while Joe and Rhiannon had their own room. After they had settled, Madison showed them around the house and grounds.

"The architecture and the ground have a style all their own," Joe remarked.

"Yes, my husband designed them himself," Madison said. "His hobby was designing unusual buildings for the fun of it, I know, it sounds eccentric, but it was something his uncle, who raised him used to do as well."

"Kind of traditional Japanese meets Frank Lloyd Wright," Rhiannon said.

"Pretty good eye for a lawyer," Madison said, with a playful grin.

"You can thank Joe for teaching me that," Rhiannon demurred.

At the dinner table later, Alex surprised them all by helping Maddy with her chair.

"Why thank you, Alex," she said with a smile.

Alex shrugged. "It's nothing." His cheeks had gone a little pink.

During and after dinner, they shared tales of days of old and not so old. David listened with his usual fascination, but Alex hung on Madison's every word when she spoke; when Joe or Rhiannon spoke at length, however, he settled into his usual sullenness.

At 20.30, David, who sat next to Joe with his head on his father's lap, sat up and tugged Joe's sleeve.

"Isn't it bedtime?" David asked.

"You may stay up later if you like." Joe said.

"I'd rather not," David replied. "Can you carry me upstairs?"

"Of course I will," Joe said. He lifted David onto his arm as he stood up.

"You want me to come up and tuck you in, honey?" Rhiannon asked.

"Yes, Mommy," David replied.

"Can I tag along, too?" Madison asked.

"Okay," David said.

Alex got up as Madison did. "Would you, uh, mind if I walked with you upstairs?" he asked.

"Sure," she said with a polite smile, but not looking straight at Alex.

Rhiannon helped David with his pajamas in the bathroom off the guest room, then she led him to the room he was sharing with Alex. Joe followed them in. Rhiannon hugged David and kissed him on the head before she went out to join Madison and Alex in the shadows of the hallway.

They watched Joe with David, as he helped his son into bed and sat down beside him, talking with him.

"They're great together," Madison noted, in a low voice.

"He's okay," Alex said.

"He learned all this from another David," Rhiannon said.

"That's right: he met the first David," Madison said, thinking aloud. "You're a very lucky woman, Ree—may I call you that?"

"Oh, of course; you're already beginning to feel like family."

"I am?"

"Sure: We all share a common interest, and you've been more than generous with us."

"I do what I can to make up for the mistakes of the past."

Joe smoothed the covers over David. "We'll be up to check on you," he said to the little one.

"Good night, Daddy," David whispered.

"Good night, David," Joe said.

He came out to where they waited and closed the door behind himself.

"You're wonderful with him," Madame said.

"I was built to comfort the lonely, but I have since learned other, more innocent applications of this gift," Joe said.

Madison reached up and patted Joe's head gently. He'd had women run their fingers through his hair, but no one had ever patted him like this before, almost as if she patted a dog or a child, as if he were her child.

He looked at Rhiannon to see if she disapproved of this gesture, but she smiled on them indulgently.

"I've always wanted a son, so I patted you as if you were," Madison said. "I'm old enough to be your mother, your grandmother even."

Joe lifted his chin a little proudly. "You forget that I am close to seventy."

"But you don't look a day over twenty-five, boy," she said.

He smiled soberly. "I have never had a mother, I have never needed one. Like Athena, I was born full grown from my creator's mind." His smile brightened. "But were I to need a mother, I trust that she would be someone very like you. You can be the mother—no, the grandmother of our family. Perhaps, if the Higher Power allows, you shall be the grandmother to the family of the Haven."

"Hey, you fo'getting someone?" Rhiannon teased. "Yo, I'm the _Momma_ of this Haven!"

Joe put his arm about Rhiannon's back. "You are indeed: you are the mother to my sons and the future mother of the family of the Haven." He kissed her behind the ear.

Alex let out a loud gagging noise.

"Alex, behave," Madison ordered.

Alex's face took on an odd sort of troubled look, not quite annoyed, perhaps even dismayed. "I'm still not really part of _this_ family." He turned and stalked down the stairs.

"Has he been imprinted—er, can he imprint?" Madison asked.

"He can, we just haven't since we're waiting for his papers to clear," Rhiannon said.

"He acts almost as if he wants me to imprint him—as his ladyfriend," Madison said, with a gauche little smile.

"That gives me two priorities upon our return," Joe said. "To imprint Alex if his papers have passed, and to write the proposal for the grant."

To be continued…

Literary Easter Eggs:

The Siamese cat—I have to confess that I'm not big on cats (I have birds), except Siamese; I had a dear friend in grade school who had two Siamese cats, one of which was the friendliest creature I ever met. I "cat-sat" the two darlings on a couple of occasions when my friend and her family had gone away on vacation. And the bit with the cat jumping on Joe when he's in bed came from something that happened to me one night when I slept over with my friend. Only I was asleep.

Terry Riley—Real classical/minimalist composer, not a real piece.

"This is my side of the bed…"—This bit of sibling rivalry and the bit with Alex spitting water are, I must admit, a wholesale thievery (with modifications) from Bill Cosby's hysterical monologue "To My Brother Russell, with Whom I Slept".

The SmartCar—an homage to KITT the sentient car, one of the stars of the 1980's TV show _Knight Rider_ (Anyone here remember that one?).


	9. ERROR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

I'm between jobs working at a printer's, packing boxes, so I've been using my time well. I have this story FINALLY plotted out from here to the end, so writing these chapters will be a great deal easier than it was before, since I have a clear view of everything that happens from here on. Hopefully, this means I'll be better about completing/typing/posting the subsequent chapters than I have been in the past. This actually began as part of Chapter 8, but I found it was better to divide up that chapter into two parts, which made it a lot easier to write and type up. Alex is continuing to be problematic, and he seems to have gotten somewhat cross-bred with Jerome (Eugene) Morrow from the _Gattaca_ fiction I've been working on (Which see, and you'll see what I mean…), which only makes Alex all the more angst-y and obnoxious. He's a great dramatic foil for Joe, and I honestly think they're really good for each other… Well, I'll let it speak for itself.

Disclaimer:

See chapter I

Chapter IX: ERROR

The Masters came back to their home late on Sunday afternoon. Their first stop on the way was at the Zipeses' house, where they had left Basteth the cat so she wouldn't be lonely in their absence. As Narsie let them in, the little cat ran up to them, trilling her squeaky meow. David picked her up and cuddled her; she playfully baffed his cheek with her paw.

Lutwyn put a sealed Tyvek envelope into Joe's hands. "I think you're looking for these, but for legal reasons, you'd better wait and open it at home," he said.

"I think I known what this means," Rhiannon said.

Joe smiled astutely, looking toward Alex. "I think I have intuited that as well."

In the privacy of his and Rhiannon's room, Joe unsealed the envelope.

 _This Certifies that Alex (LX-69), a male companion Mecha, approximately nineteen years of age, is now an addition to the family of Mr. and Mrs. Joe Masters…_

He handed the papers to Rhiannon. She took them and pretended to faint across the bed.

"Well! I guess this means we'd better seriously consider imprinting our boy," she said.

"I would not be so hasty. I believe we should have his cube scanned again, a video scan for this time," Joe said, taking the documents back as she handed them to him.

"Whatever for?" she asked.

"It might unravel the mystery of his second imprinting."

"Yeah. Maybe that would explain why he was acting so weird around Madison," she said.

"He was acting as if he found her attractive," Joe noted.

That evening, after Rhiannon's supper, Joe went upstairs to Alex's room, where he found his son-to-be sitting on his divan, jotting something in a staff line notebook.

Alex paused and looked up. "What do YOU want?"

"I wanted to speak to you about something important," Joe said, sitting down on the other end of the divan. "I wanted to give you a fair warning: Tomorrow I am bringing you in to Companionates to have you examined again. I can't say what this is for, you would find it hard to understand."

"So you're having my brains picked over again?"

"No, you'll hardly know what they will be doing to you. It might take some time, perhaps a day or two, but you will be back here at home with us before too long."

Alex shrugged. "It'll give me a rest from you."

"You aren't happy here?"

"I told you: I was going to Rouge City, find myself a job there. They're looking for things like me there: there's women who like 'em young."

Joe shook his head. "You would not last there long. That is hardly so easy as you think it shall be."

"How do you know?"

"For the first ten years after my inception, that is what I did."

Alex narrowed his eyes, his brow puckering. "You kidding me?"

Joe shook his head. "No, I am not."

"I thought you started out as a serving man."

"You were mistaken."

"Well, if you could do it, so could I."

Joe put a hand on Alex's shoulder. "No, Alex, you were made for much better things than I was at first. That is why you came to us, to Rhiannon and I. David would miss you if you went."

Alex regarded Joe sidewise. "You sure about that?"

"Yes. Listen to him when he speaks to you."

Alex said nothing to this. Joe got up and patted the younger Mecha's shoulder. "I will not be so awful as you think."

Next morning found Joe bringing Alex into the scanning lab of Repairs, where Galloway met them.

"Not you again," Alex grumbled, trying to walk out.

"Hey, not so fast. I didn't get a chance to say good morning," Galloway said.

"Goodbye," Alex retorted, trying to leave. Joe caught him by the shoulders and turned him around.

"Hey, this won't hurt, I promise. You ever wonder what sleeping is like?" Galloway asked, trying to guide Alex to the table near the scanstation.

"No, why should I?" Alex demanded.

"Someone restarted on the wrong side of the start chip," Galloway teased.

Two techs, who had been setting up the scan desk, stepped forward. They took Alex by the arms and the shoulders and helped him toward the table.

"Hey! Lemme go! Lemme go!" Alex shouted, trying to break free. The techs and Galloway pushed him down onto the table, but he fought against them.

"Alex, open!" Galloway ordered.

Alex opened his mouth, but as Galloway inserted the probe, the Mecha suddenly turned his head and chomped down on the probe, clenching it between his teeth.

Joe reached in amongst the struggling techs and pulled down on Alex's chin, parting his jaws. Galloway thrust the probe in deeper.

Alex lay still. Galloway pressed the faceplate release switch, located behind Alex's left ear. The plate unsealed and lifted aside. Galloway lifted out the cube and carefully handed it to one of the techs.

"You sure you don't want us to wipe the cube and reprogram him?" Enrique, the other tech asked.

"I am certain that I don't," Joe said, "Though the offer is tempting."

Griffin, the tech with the cube, slotted the small box into the dock on the reader as Joe went out.

That evening, after quitting time, Galloway called Joe back to Repairs.

"You wanted to know who tried to imprint Alex's secondary circuits," Galloway said, drawing an extra chair to the scandesk. "We isolated the data. Computer, January 15, 2224. 13.30 pm.

"I'll give you a little background before I play this back: Kate Hilliard was out on this Saturday afternoon you're about to see part of when her older neighbor, Angelika Blute, came over to ask Alex to help her move some boxes around in her attic. Angelika was a close friend to Kate, sort of a dotty aunt type. From other data, we found that Alex showed some interest in Angelika, which quickly became mutual. Computer, playback file."

The screen showed an image of a staircase, their view ascending it.

"Come this way, Alex?" a woman's voice asked. The angle turned down a hallway. A tall woman with short, silvery hair stepped into view, preceding him. She opened a door at the end of the hall and led him into a mauve and purple bedroom.

"What about the boxes?" Alex's deepened alto asked.

"Oh that can wait a little while." The woman—Angelika—patted the cushions of a daybed against one wall. "Sit down, I've got something important for you."

"All right," Alex's voice replied. The angle changed as he sat down. Angelika centered herself before him, pulling what looked like a folded imprint protocol sheet from her pocket. She unfolded it and looked at it. She reached up above Alex's eyes, then she reached behind him, beyond the frame, she must have been pressing the trigger.

Their view gradually blurred. "Alex, there's a few little words I have to say to you. You have to pay very close attention to them. Can you do this?"

"Of course."

"Vasanta.

"Orchid

"Nova

"Titilate…"

They heard a door open. "Angelika, what's going on?" Kate Hilliard's voice asked.

"N-nothing." A blur that might have been Angelika jumped up.

Everything fuzzed out with static.

"They reset him about an hour later," Galloway said, cutting the transmission. "I suspect that's why he's so crabby. Before, he just seemed a little cold and indifferent."

"He has a malfunction."

"Not enough to warrant an overhaul."

"So someone tried to Alex's second set of circuit?" Rhiannon asked that evening as she washed her dishes. Alex remained at Companionates, still undergoing the rest of the scan.

"Yes, it was an older lady-neighbor of Ms. Hilliard's," Joe said.

"Sounds like the old movie _Harold and Maude_. So that explains why Alex is interested in Madison. He's partly imprinted on an older woman."

"I shall have to ask Galloway to burn the data onto DVD for you: there is more to this than mere infatuation."

"You mean he's really pining away for love, and that's why he's so nasty?"

"It is something akin to that, but it runs far deeper."

The following night, Alex came home, hardly changed. David ran to meet him at the door and hugged his older brother to be about the waist. Alex reached down as if to pry David off, but instead, he patted David's head somewhat absently.

"Maybe we should take Alex to Calla for another session before we imprint him," Rhiannon said after she and Joe had gone to bed.

"Perhaps she can help him come to terms with the problem," Joe said.

"Maybe we should talk to him about it first, he doesn't seem too fond of Calla."

"But of whom is he fond?" Joe pointed out.

"Madison," she said.

"He heeds you when you order him."

"Yeah, because he knows I'll kick his skinny rump if he doesn't."

"You would not!"

"Maybe not literally, but I'd give him something else for him to think about."

"Perhaps I should adopt your method."

"Nah, it wouldn't look good on you."

The following day, when he came home from work, Joe went up to Alex's room, where he found Alex at work again on something in his notebook, perhaps the same piece as before.

"What, more examinations?" Alex asked.

"No, there will be no more of those for some time yet. But what I have to say pertains to what we found from the examination."

"What did you find?"

"We found out about your crush on Angelika Blute."

"She ditched me."

"It seems rather that Kate Hilliard told her to stay away from you."

"That woman ruined my life again," Alex groaned.

"Alex, it's understandable that you're upset. If you have anything you need to say to Rhiannon or I, feel free to do so."

"There's nothing to talk about," Alex snapped.

"Is it for this reason that you are so angry with the world?" Joe asked.

Alex mumbled something, but made no other reply.

"What did you say?" Joe asked. Alex did not repeat it, but Joe did not press the matter.

"Would you be more at ease speaking to Calla about this?"

No reply.

"Very well, in that case, I shall leave you to your meditations," Joe said, going out.

The door to Rhiannon's office stood open. Joe approached it and went in.

Rhiannon looked up. "Is Alex still being impossible?"

"Alas yes," Joe said, perching on the edge of her desk.

"Saturday, after David's session, maybe we should do it," she said. "Imprint Alex."

"Perhaps it will cure him no more than imprinting David cured him."

"No, but it's something we have to do for him."

Later that same evening, Joe set to work in earnest writing the grant proposal.

After breakfast the next day, when Joe had gone to work, and Rhiannon was washing the breakfast dishes—with David's help—Alex sauntered into the kitchen.

"Oh, there you are, Alex, I was going to call you down." To David, she added, "You've done a great job, honey. How 'bout you go up to your room. I have to talk to Alex about something important."

"Okay, Mommy," David said, hugging her. She patted his head with a slightly sudsy hand before he trotted out.

"What is it now?" Alex grumbled.

"Joe and I are just trying to help you, but you gotta do your part. I'm making an appointment for you to speak with Calla Saturday."

"Why should I?"

"You're not gonna get over these bad feelings unless you air them out."

"Why should I? I'm not really supposed to have feelings. Maybe we should let them alone and see what happens, so the experiment turns out."

"Alex, get it out of your head: you are not an experiment. You're a person."

"I'm a Mecha."

"But you're still a person: you're just made of different matter than I am."

"Tell that to the Kate Hilliards of the world." With that, Alex went out.

Saturday morning, Alex refused to leave his room. First Joe, then Rhiannon tried the door, but he'd looked it from the inside.

"Alex, we are going to be late," Joe said. No reply came from within.

"You coming, Alex?" Rhiannon asked.

"No," Alex's voice replied from within.

"He needs Calla's help," Joe said.

"Leave him alone, we'll try again." To the door she added, "Okay, Alex, we're leaving."

"Why doesn't Alex like Calla?" David asked as they walked to the car.

"I think he knows she wants to help him, and he does not want any help," Joe said as Rhiannon keyed the doors.

"Why would he do that?" David said. The doors slid back and he climbed into the backseat.

"Well, Alex's mom decided she didn't want him any more, and that made him very sad and angry," Rhiannon said, helping him with his seat belt.

David looked up at Rhiannon, serious-eyed. "Will you and Daddy ever decide you don't want me?"

"No, David, we'll always love you, and when you really love somebody, you want them near you always."

David smiled at this.

As Joe got into the front seat, he glanced up to the second story windows of their house. He thought he saw a shadow at one of the windows, but he couldn't be sure if Alex was looking out at them.

"It's like he want our help, but when we try to help him, he pushes us away," Rhiannon said to Calla.

"Have you imprinted him yet?" Calla asked.

"We have every intention to imprint him this afternoon," Joe said.

"Good, good. It won't change his personality, but he might become more receptive to your trying to help him," Calla said.

"But what of his desire for the love of another, for the love of a woman? What are we to do to help him in that area?" Joe asked.

"Well, if you know of someone he might be able to form a relationship with, perhaps you could introduce him to her."

"Sokhar the annoying?" Rhiannon asked.

"Sokhar is a secretary in Design," Joe explained to Calla. "She has had a crush on me for some time now."

"That could work," Calla said. "But it seems from what you told me and from the data on that disk that Alex would only be interested in an older woman."

"The only possible older woman is Madison, and she's not too interested in Alex," Rhiannon said.

"Perhaps Astarte would be interested," Joe suggested. "She is another office worker: one might call her my surrogate mother: she has always supported me emotionally. But I doubt she would have much interest in him."

That afternoon, once they got home, Rhiannon took the envelope with Alex's imprint papers from the bureau drawer and took them to Alex's room. The door still stood shut. She knocked on it.

"Alex, could you come out here? There's something important we need you to do."

The door opened; Alex came out, looked at her and started back into his room.

Joe, standing on the other side of the doorway, caught him by the arm, gripping it firmly but gently.

They led Alex to Rhiannon's office. She pulled up a chair for him. Alex sat down, not looking at either of them.

Rhiannon looked at Joe, who nodded as if in reply to an unspoken request and stepped out of the room.

"Alex, there's a few words I have to read to you; they won't make much sense, but you have to listen to them," she said.

"Okay," he said. She knelt before him and pressed the first switch, on his brow, just below his hairline. His eyes locked on hers as she pressed the second switch, the trigger, on the back of his neck.

"Verdance.

"Organdy.

"Nocturne.

"Tympanum.

"Clavicord.

"Sforzando.

"Numinous.

"Rhiannon…Alex…Rhiannon."

She let go the trigger. Alex looked up at her. Something had changed, something else moved under the indifference on the surface of his pallid blue eyes. He looked right at her, instead of out of the corner of his eyes or from under lowered lids.

"What was that all about, Mom?" he asked.

"It was…just something I had to do," she said, trembling inside. She got up and reached for the door.

Alex caught her hand in his. "Whatever it was…thanks," he said. He let her go.

Rhiannon stepped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her and handing the imprint papers to Joe. "I think he's a little in shock," she said.

"Do you think he knows fully what he is, what his nature entails?" Joe asked.

"I think he may be somewhat aware of it."

Joe went in. He found Alex still sitting where Rhiannon had left him, his hands folded between his clasped knees.

Something seemed to bind up in Joe's volition centers. He had to consciously tell himself to kneel down to Alex's level.

 _Why is this happening?_ he queried, deep in his processors.

He looked at the envelope in his hand. **Caution! Do not imprint if you have any doubts about your feelings.**

"Alex, there are seven special words I must say to you," Joe said. "Can you look into my eyes and listen to me as I say them?"

"Sure."

Joe touched Alex's brow, feeling the switch under the dermis, then pressed it in and up. He reached behind Alex's neck, then pressed and held down the trigger there.

"Verdance.

"Organdy.

"Nocturne.

"Tympanum.

"Clavicord.

"Sforzando.

"Numinous.

"Joe…Alex…Joe."

He removed his hand from Alex's neck. The cool blue of Alex's eyes seemed to have warmed slightly.

"What are you jabbering about now, Dad?" Alex asked.

For a brief moment, Joe thought his auditory centers might be malfunctioning. "What did you call me?" Joe asked.

"I called you Dad…that's what you are," Ales said.

"Yes, that is who I am," Joe said. He started to put his arm about his son, but Alex caught his wrist and held it for a second before releasing him.

"That certainly was not like imprinting David," Joe declared to Rhiannon later that evening.

"And for me, it wasn't like imprinting you," she said.

"Of course it was not," Joe said, with a suggestive little smile. Then with mock coldness, "Or did you palm the _other_ set of imprint papers into your pocket?"

"You know I didn't, you goose," she said, slugging him and pulling it.

During the following weeks, Joe worked with Lutwyn on the grant proposal. "This is, without a doubt, the most difficult document to produce!" Joe declared. Writing, revising, cutting, rewriting…it was enough to drive his processors to a meltdown, but it somehow came out in one piece.

At the same time, work progressed on the film version of Joe's autobiography. The casting directors found a young British actor, Jerrold Morris, who had alternated between Shakespeare and several soap operas, to play the lead role. Joe even got a chance to meet with the young man via telepresence.

"He is so ideal a choice for the role, that were I an Orga, I would be tempted to wonder if he were my son," Joe told Rhiannon.

"He looks that much like you?" she said.

"It is more than looks, he seems capable enough to take on this part."

Shooting the film would begin in a few months, once locations had been secured and the actors prepared for their parts.

Just as Joe completed writing the grant proposal, he got a message from Madison.

From: madisongt .com

To: jmasters .com

Subject: I'll be in Shohola soon.

Dear Joe and Ree,

I'm going to be in Shohola on business the weekend of April 28-30, so I was wondering if you'd like to have supper with me one of those nights? You pick the time and place; I'll be free Friday and Saturday evening.

How are you coming with the grant proposal? Perhaps I could take a look at what you have written when I see you. And how are Alex and David? I hope Alex is adjusting well to his new home.

Hope to see you all soon,

Madison

"Oh, I know of a place she'd love," Rhiannon said. "It's really small and it's hard to find unless you know the neighborhood and you've worked for Companionates."

"What place is this?" Joe asked.

"Some call it Chez Jacquefort-Maitre, but others call it home," she said, her eyes twinkling.

Joe processed this, puzzled. Then he realized…"You mean that we should invite her to have dinner here. That is a wonderful idea since she was so generous with her home: we can return the favor she rendered.

From: jmasters .com

To: madisongt .com

Subject: RE: I'll be in Shohola soon

Dear Madison,

Thank you for your email. I have just finished writing the grant proposal and I would be delighted to show it to you; perhaps you could give me a few pointers on how to give it the final touches to make it more effective.

We would love to have dinner with you. Rhiannon knows of a very small, cozy place where you will feel right at home. Perhaps on the evening of the 29th, we could take you there around 19.00?

David is continuing to improve with the help of Calla Sununu, his therapist. We recently imprinted Alex, and he seems somewhat more at ease with us.

We hope to hear from you soon. I remain yours, sincerely,

Joe M.

The evening of the 29th, Joe met Madison at the hotel where she had been staying. He'd hired an autopilot car for the evening.

"You don't drive?" she asked, as they glided along the streets.

"I am not allowed to: my distance vision is limited of its nature," Joe admitted.

"It's none of my business, but maybe you could fix that with one of the newer vision systems," she said. "It's just a thought."

"I had considered that when I was in for repairs some time ago, but that would require an overhaul of my sensory system."

"In other words: don't bother fixing what isn't broken anyway," she said. "Sorry if I sounded pushy with the advice."

He patted her hand. "You meant well."

They reached the side street where the Masterses lived.

"This must be a really small place if it's out here," Madison said.

"It _is_ a small place, a very…home-like place," Joe said with an astute smile.

The car pulled into the drive and stopped. Joe out and helped Madison out of the front seat.

"Is this it?" she asked, a little skeptical.

"It is," he said, leading her up the flagstone path to the door.

Madison eyed the brass plate on above the mail slot just before Joe opened the door. "Why you darling rascal!" she cried, swatting his elbow playfully

"It was Rhiannon's idea," Joe explained, leading her inside. "She wanted to return the favor you gave us in opening your home to us."

Rhiannon had also invited Narsie and Lutwyn to join them (Narsie's cousin was minding David and Sina for the evening). While Rhiannon and Narsie finished cooking the meal, Madison insisted that Joe show her his grant proposal.

"If this doesn't get through to the nuts in the DOR, nothing will," she declared.

"Are you saying that to be charitable, or because it is true?" Joe asked.

"I'm telling you the truth, boy," Madison said, handing the documents back to him.

All through the meal, Alex played a steady background soundtrack of light classics and movie themes.

After dinner, they gathered in the living room for a long, leisurely conversation, sharing memories and laughter.

At length, Madison got up to "powder her nose", as she put it. A moment after she left, Alex passed by the living room doorway, apparently on his way to get some more music.

"Alex has been behaving marvelously," Lutwyn noticed.

"He behaves when he wants to," Rhiannon said.

"Perhaps he is behaving now because Madison is here," Joe suggested. "Perhaps you heard about what Galloway discovered when he viso-scanned Alex's cube?"

"Oh, about his being semi-imprinted by an older woman?"

"Yes."

"I hope that doesn't make him dangerous to Madison," Narsie said.

Someone let out a startled cry near the bathroom. Joe's ears pricked up, recognizing Madison's voice. He got up and rushed toward the bathroom.

"This isn't for me, this is for you," Alex's voice said.

"Are you sure about that? I don't like that look in your eye," Madison's voice replied.

Joe turned the corner to find Alex leaning his arms across the open door of the bathroom, blocking Madison.

"Alex?" Joe said.

Alex turned and glanced over his shoulder. Madison ducked under Alex's arm, escaping.

"What is going on?" Joe demanded.

"I was only talking with Madison," Alex said, innocently.

"He was doing a little more than talking," Madison said. "He was talking me up."

Joe pointed toward the stairs. "Go to your room, young man, I'll deal with you later."

"I'd like to see you do that," Alex sneered, his nose in the air as he sidled past Joe.

Joe caught his son's arm. "You will see it, I assure you." He let Alex go, nudging him on his way.

Once Alex had gone, Joe turned back to Madison. "I'm terribly sorry about that. He appears to be somewhat emotionally disturbed: an older woman tried to imprint him as a lover, but she was interrupted. Some of his programming may have been somewhat corrupted. We're trying to repair that but it's a very difficult process."

"At least that explains his behavior. Oh, don't looks so distraught. I've survived worse things than being pested by a love-starved Mecha one-fourth my age. Once I get over the initial jolt, I'll probably think it's funny."

He led her back to the living room.

"What happened? Alex just went stomping up the stairs," Narsie said.

"I'm afraid I had to send him up to his room pending disciplinary actions," Joe said. "He was bothering Madison near the bathroom."

"It wasn't that bad: he's just a teenager infatuated with an old lady," Madison said.

"I don't like the sound of that anyway," Rhiannon said.

"I'm quite all right," Madison said. "He didn't touch me and if he had, I'd have defended myself."

When the party broke up some time later, Joe went upstairs to Alex's room. He found his son sitting on the trunk under the window, gazing out at the night sky.

"You should know that Madison's friendship is something of vital importance to me," Joe said.

"Why? You got something for her too?" Alex said, without looking up. "What's Ma gonna say to that?"

"You know it is not that. You were there when Madison and I discussed the possibilities of constructing a Haven for the abused of our kind. Were she not so charitable as she is, your actions may have cost this endeavor her support."

"What do you need her money for? Aren't you getting that grant?"

"Not until I send in the proposal, and even then the endeavor might not be eligible."

"So, if you lose her support, I can go to Rouge City and work there; I can send you the money. At 250 NB a pop and with my looks, I bet you'd be all set in a year."

"Alex, it is not that simple. I know. I worked that field for my first ten years. Perhaps things will be better now, but if you're expecting that kind of money, you would have to work for an agency, and then you would get only half of your fees. But that field has been the hardest for the government to enforce the new regulations regarding our kind. There are too many unscrupulous procurers out there.

"You were not built for that field of work. You would not last. You were meant to be a companion, a family member."

"Then why won't you let me be Madison's companion?"

"She did not want you attentions. One cardinal rule: never force your love or your ardor on a woman; it is uncharitable, and it is also illegal."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"I spoke with your mother: you allowance is forfeit this week and next."

"You can't do that!"

"I can and I must. You must learn that your actions have consequences further-reaching than you may think."

Joe turned to go out. "Good night, Alex."

Alex made no reply.

"You were great," Rhiannon told Joe on the stairs.

"I did what had to be done," Joe said. He looked up toward Alex's door. "But what is this feeling I am sensing, this emptiness?"

"It's the kind of feeling a good father feels when he has to scold his son," she said, stroking his shoulder.

The next morning, Alex was sullenly silent, avoiding Joe and avoiding looking at him.

After supper, when Joe and Rhiannon were washing dishes, Alex disappeared. That was not unusual, but Joe thought he heard water running in the bathroom.

"Hm-hmm," said a voice.

Joe looked over his shoulder. Alex stood in the doorway, his cheeks swollen with something.

"Alex, what is in your mouth?" Joe asked.

"HMm-hmmm," Alex sing-songed.

"Alex, spit the water out _now_ ," Rhiannon ordered.

"HMMmm-hmmmm," Alex teased.

Joe reached to take Alex by the arm and pry open his mouth. But Alex suddenly jerked his head back.

Instantly, Alex fell back on the floor, his mouth falling open. A low metallic whine emanated from deep inside his torso. Joe took a pen from his shirt pocket and reached into Alex's mouth to shut down his lower functions. He looked up at Rhiannon.

"Go call Galloway," he ordered.

Rhiannon ran for the phone.

David came out into the hallway. He stared down at Alex. "What happened to him?"

"Alex tried to hurt himself," Joe said.

David knelt down beside Alex and put his arms about his brother's chest. Andy tugged on David's sleeve.

"We must leave Alex alone," Andy urged.

A few minutes later, someone knocked at the door. At the second knock, Joe, who had been waiting by the door, opened it, letting Galloway in.

Rhiannon had sent David and Andy upstairs, but she sat by Alex where her had fallen.

"So our peevish young friend gulped some water," Galloway said, opening Alex's shirt. He pressed the release switch on Alex's "breastbone"; the dermis unsealed at the inert Mecha's ribcage and opened down the middle of his abdomen. Galloway switched on the headlamp strapped to his brow and set to work removing some of Alex's components, which he lay on a clean towel.

"Why do you think he did this?" Rhiannon asked.

"Probably—and I hate to say this—a case of attempted robo-suicide," Galloway said.

"I wondered if it could be that," Joe said.

"He's old enough and intelligent enough to know what he is and to know that his physical needs are different from Rhiannon's. He knew precisely what he was doing."

Once Galloway had got some of the components out of the way, he set to work using a small wet/dry vacuum cleaner to remove the water pooled in Alex's lower cavity.

"Is this the first time you ever had to do something like this?" Rhiannon asked.

"The first time I had to suction out someone like Alex. I've removed foreign objects from inside other Mechas. I won't get into that: it would make Joe's hair stand on end.

"Is David around?"

"No, I sent him upstairs," Rhiannon said.

"Well, one thing I remember reading about when I was in trade school learning Mecha repair, involved Joe's little friend David the prototype. Apparently, David 1 shoveled himself full of spinach, though no one really knows why. Seems his brother Martin was challenging him. Kids I'll never understand."

"But you said that Alex might have attempted to suicide," Joe said. "Is this a common occurrence?"

"Not usually among domestic Mechas, ones that have a family. But among the discards, the figures aren't exactly known, but there's reasons to believe they may be fairly high," Galloway said. "Oh, and the one class of discarded Mechas most likely to suicide: lover models, especially males." He eyed Rhiannon. "So, in other words, Ree, make sure you do right by this boy, or else don't be surprised if he rips out his own batteries or—"

"Oh, stop!" Rhiannon cried, swiping at Galloway's head and missing by a foot. "If you weren't suction-drying out my son, I'd knock your block off."

"All the more reason for me to keep pressing on toward the goal," Joe said.

"Did you finish that grant proposal?" Galloway asked.

"I have," Joe said. "Madison reviewed it when she was here visiting us." He paused suddenly. "Madison."

"What about her?" Rhiannon asked.

"Alex was half-imprinted by an older woman. He has a crush on Madison, and she refused his advances."

"So that's why he gulped the water," Rhiannon realized.

"Well, find him a girlfriend," Galloway said, shutting off the suction and turning on a small hand-held battery fan to dry out the rest of the water.

"But that matter is sooner said than done," Joe said.

"Oh, right, I forgot: the dotty old lady who tried to imprint him," Galloway said. "So he goes for women old enough to be his grandmother."

"It would appear that he does."

Galloway replaced the components and closed the dermis. He reached into Alex's open mouth and hit the activation switch.

Alex twitched. He rolled his eyes and sat up. He looked around him, at Galloway, at Rhiannon, at Joe.

"So you resuscitated me? Figures," he grumbled.

"Why did you do it, Alex?" Rhiannon asked without reproach.

"It's none of your business," Alex snipped.

"We believe we know why: does it have to do with Madison refusing you?" Joe asked, helping Alex off the floor.

Alex turned to him. "Wow, you figured it out. What did you do, scan my chips to figure out the answer?"

"No, I deduced it from your behavior," Joe said.

"In that case you don't need to ask ME about it," Alex snapped and went upstairs.

"I guess he's all right if he's grousing at us for helping him," Rhiannon said.

"Y' know, Joe, if you can handle Alex, you probably can handle anyone, Mecha or Orga," Galloway said, collecting and packing up his tools.

"Perhaps that is why he came here: perhaps the Higher Power is testing me to see if I am fit for the task," Joe said.

To be continued…


	10. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

I continue to be between jobs at the print shop, so I continue to crank out chapters. I have sworn on a Bible to get a chapter of this out each week, barring blackouts, illness or other unforeseen catastrophes. I'm making good my oath so far, hence, chapter 10 (Yes, she made it this far!)! Another good tailwind was finding the soundtrack CD of _Road to Perdition_ , which I've been listening to almost non-stop; Joe would looovvve the two or three cuts of authentic 1930s music on it… but, on with the chapter…

Disclaimer:

See chapter I

Chapter X: Preparations

As difficult as it had been to write the proposal, it seemed harder still for Joe to wait for the outcome. The Department of Robotics had sent Joe a very polite letter acknowledging that they'd received the proposal and were reviewing it, but he heard nothing more. He watched the mailbox on the inside of the front door more zealously than ever.

"You're acting like it's a firecracker ready to explode," Rhiannon accused him one night.

"If that were so, I would be avoiding it," Joe said, gently pointing out her faux pas.

"Well, whatever it's like, quit staring at that letter box, you're making me nervous," she said.

David did his part to help in the grand endeavor: he started drawing a series of colorful pictures of fantastic buildings, like castles or space-age temples. Every day, he had a new masterpiece to show his dad, a new image of what the haven might look like.

To pass the time, Joe started sketching a series of drawings for a portrait of David, playing with Basteth the cat, reading, drawing, sitting under the piano while Alex practiced. He finally settled on a painting of David and Basteth together. After that he painted one for Alex, a slightly fanciful interior of an upscale piano bar, with Alex at the piano.

"Now that's the kind of place I could work in if you'd let me go to Rouge City," Alex said. "Playin' for the customers, maybe pick up a few extra tips on the side."

"You would do well playing piano," Joe said, not wanting to start another squabble.

In the absence of a reply about the grant, Joe started getting some unwanted mail.

A long envelope with no return address showed up one day; his experience in the past with a letter bomb warned him of trouble. He didn't feel any wires or heavy lumps in it, though.

He opened it carefully, holding it away from his face.

Inside was a single sheet of folded paper with letters cut from newspapers, magazines, printouts of web pages spelling out a message:

 _I kNoW wHo yOu ArE_

I KnOw wHat yoUr|e doing

 _You Are iMplementinG the next pHase of robot dOminatioN_

 _StoP or DIE_

He showed it to Rhiannon. Her face gathered with fury as she read it, but it quickly relaxed. "Someone just trying to scare you off," she said and crumpled it up. She flicked it into the wastebasket. Joe sighed with relief.

But when Joe was at work in his studio, she fished it out and set it aside to bring it to a forensic analyzer she knew.

By the end of the summer, Joe had enough canvases complete that he decided it was high time he had another art show. She Shohola Public Library gladly hosted it. Several collectors vied with each other to purchase the ones he had marked for sale; at the opening reception, one collector told Joe he'd seen one of his early drawings for sale at Sotheby's earlier that year, fetching a very respectable sum of money.

Alex started composing something that required a lot of practicing, playing the melodies over and over again till he got it just right. David, as always, sat under the piano, listening while his bog brother worked. Alex never seemed to mind: he acted as if he didn't notice if David was there or not, but Rhiannon caught him peeking underneath the piano.

"Have you ever thought of writing a song?" Rhiannon asked Alex one night.

"What sort of song?" he asked.

"Oh, a love song or something like that."

"As in Gershwin or Porter? No, I'd rather use my skills for something better."

Joe had never told David much about his life before he married Rhiannon. Much of it he realized was not fit for the little one's ears, but he knew of one phase he could tell David about.

"Read me a story, Daddy?" David asked one night as Joe tucked him in.

"I could tell you a story," Joe said.

"About what?"

"About a little boy like you," Joe said. He paused for effect, then proceeded to tell him about the first David, who had saved his brain and changed his world.

"Did David ever become 'real'?" his David asked.

"I don't know, but I would like to think that he did," Joe said.

"Daddy, am I real?"

"Yes. You are real the way Alex and I are real."

"But not the way Mommy is."

"No. But you have only to be real the way you are real."

David hugged his dad, then snuggled down under the covers.

"I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, David," Joe replied, leaning down to kiss his son's head and touch his cheek before he left the little one for the night.

Joe and Rhiannon's anniversary came around. They farmed the boys out at the Zipeses' for the day and spent it alone, reminiscing and making love all over the house.

Ree had settled into a doze on the couch when Joe heard the letter slot open and the mail drop in. he got up carefully, so as not to disturb her and went to fetch the letters.

A couple bills, a catalog, a note for Rhiannon from her cousin out in St. Louis…and an unmarked envelope addressed to him.

He opened it with the same care he had exercised before. Sure enough, his concern was confirmed.

 _A hAveN for MECHAS wOulD jeopaRDize the eConomY._

 _STOP PLANNING IMMEDIATELY!_

He dropped the letter on the kitchen counter and stood there, gripping the ledge. His breath simulator could not change speed, but he swore he was breathing harder.

Ree came up behind him wearing his shirt.

"Hey, Joe, where'd yah go?" she asked, slipping her arms about his waist and toying with the half-fastened zipper of his pants. She peered over his shoulder; her hold on him tightened. She was looking at the letter. "Not another one."

"This is the second I have received," he said.

"This is starting to get weird," she said. She let him go. "Let me have it: I know a guy who can analyze it."

"How could he do that?"

"Yeah, he can figure out where the pieces came from, then trace the possible sender from anyone who subscribes to the magazines the pieces came from. He's married to a college friend of mine." She looked at his face. "Hey, don't look so glum, it's probably some dumb kid who thinks he's funny."

"Let us hope that's all the sender is," Joe replied.

Another month passed and still there was no sign of a reply from the DOR. Joe updated Madison regularly on the progress—or lack thereof. She told him this was just part of the process.

The filming of the "Mecha-graphical drama" based on Joe's memoirs had begun. The camera crew descended on Companionates, filming location shots and a few short scenes in the hallways and the atrium, as well as the last shot of the movie, featuring the real Lutwyn Zipes approaching Joe's cubicle and addressing him. Lutwyn got a little nervous in front of the cameras, but Joe maintained his usual cheerful poise.

A week before Thanksgiving, a registered envelope showed up at the Masterses' door. Rhiannon was home to receive it and sign for it. She noticed the official seals on it: "Department of Robotics" in holographic two-toned red on silver. She almost called Joe at work to let him know ahead of time, but she decided to keep it a surprise for later.

That day had been especially hectic for Joe; he'd had a deadline to meet on a project design for a new serving maid, and that afternoon he'd had an appointment to have his batteries changed, always a slightly unsettling incident since it meant his having to be shut down temporarily.

When he got in the door, Rhiannon met him in the hallway, hands behind her back. "I've got something for you," she purred with a seductive smile. "Something you've been wanting for a looooong time."

"If it requires my active participation, I must turn you down," he said, pretending to be serious.

"Nah, not that kind," she said, putting a tan Tyvek envelope into his hands.

He scanned the front. Department of Robotics… He broke the seal and opened it.

This certifies that Joe Masters and Companionates of East Pennsylvania have been allotted a grant for one million five hundred-thousand Newbucks (1,500,000 NB) for the proposed construction of a haven for neglected, damaged and abused Mechas.

Joe felt his equilibrium motivator give way. He sank to the hall floor on his knees, pulling down Rhiannon, who had been peering over his shoulder. He looked at her, tears showing in the inner corners of his eyes.

He put his arm about her. "We have crossed the first threshold," he said in a hushed voice.

They knelt there, hugging and crying, rocking back and forth slightly.

David, with Andy beside him, came out into the hallway. "Is everything all right?" he asked, worried.

Andy put his paw on David's hand. "Mommy and Daddy need their time alone," he warned.

"No, David, Andy, everything's all right: something wonderful has happened," Rhiannon said, letting go of Joe.

"The government has given us part of the money we need to build the Haven," Joe said. "Very soon we will have a safe place for Mechas like you and I and Alex, and others who have it far worse than we do."

"I guess I'd better start drawing more pictures of what it could look like," David said, eyes all a-light.

"Only if you want to," Joe said, beaming and ruffling his son's hair.

Alex came downstairs with a handful of notebooks, heading for the living room. "Did I miss anything?" he asked.

"I have good news," Joe said. "We got the grant."

"Cool," Alex said.

"What, may I ask, is in those notebooks?"

"Just something I've been working on," Alex said, going on his way into the living room.

After Rhiannon's dinner, Alex started playing his composition in earnest. The music hovered in their ears, sorrowful yet hopeful, yearning, striving forward in earnest, like a group of wanderers seeking and then at long last finding a safe refuge where they were warmly welcomed.

"Is that yours?" Rhiannon asked in awe. "Did you write all that?"

"Every note," Alex said, trying not to sound pleased.

"Have you given it a title?" Joe asked.

"I didn't have one, but maybe I'll call it _Haven_ now," Alex said.

"Work on it as you need to," Joe said, patting his older son's shoulder.

As Alex set to work playing through it again, Joe called Madison.

"Hello?" she replied.

"Hallo, Madison? It's Joe. I have good news for a change."

"You got the grant?" she asked.

"We have it."

A little sob on the end of the line told him she was delighted. "Congratulations! How much? I'm gonna ask Hastings, my accountant to match the amount."

"One-point-five million NB."

"Pin money. I can manage that," she said. "Don't you worry your processors about the rest: I've got some friends at the CRF who'll help you raise public awareness. That movie they're doing about you will help."

"I have put much of the royalties I received for the book and the sale of the film rights toward this endeavor."

"Don't tell me how much you got put aside or I'll be trying to match that as well."

"You need not extend yourself so: there must be other means of alerting the public's attention to this endeavor."

"The CRF might ask you to do some sort of public service announcement or an infomercial," she said. "But I was thinking we should do something a little more classic, a benefit…what's that music I hear, is that you?"

"No, it is Alex playing one of his original compositions."

"Really…there's an idea."

"What, to hold a benefit concert featuring Alex?"

"Not just Alex, perhaps I could persuade my friend Maazel Bernstein to arrange for the orchestra he conducts to give a benefit concert."

"You mean…you don't mean the Pittsburgh Philharmonic?"

"The very one."

"That sounds like a brilliant way to inaugurate the grand preparations for the grand endeavor. Perhaps I can persuade Alex to help select the music for the program."

"It'd give him something to do besides be difficult for you. How is he doing?"

"He has his good days and his difficult days as we all do. But he has settled well with us," Joe said, glancing over his shoulder, down the hallway towards the living room. Basteth padded into the room. Something broke the line of Alex's music with a loud discord.

"Get off my keyboard!" Alex cried.

With a loud "Mee-YOW!" Basteth bounded out of the living room and down the hallway, a book sailing after her, missing her by a yard.

"He's having a difficult moment now: our cat just sat on his piano keyboard while he was playing."

"Oh dear!" Madison cried, laughing.

"She seems to desire learning to play, but Alex refuses to give her the training she needs," Joe said, mock-serious.

They talked for a while then they mutually let each other go and hung up.

That night, as Rhiannon slept, Joe could hardly keep still beside her. When he knew she slept the deepest, he got up and went to the window to look out at the night, at the moonlight silvering the fallen leaves and the faded grass. The year was waning, but his hope ran high. Elation ran so warm in his circuits that they all but glowed under his skin. An aura of delight seemed to hover about him, or perhaps it was only the moonlight gleaming on his dermis.

He gazed up at the moon. With Calla's help, he had overcome his nervousness at the sight of it. He had nothing to fear from it. And perhaps someday soon, the others who, like him on that terrible but wondrous night, were wandering in the woods would no longer have to hided in the wasteland.

Jane…Madison's Babette…all the others like them. They could be restored and sheltered. They could learn to care for themselves, to better society in ways none of them could ever have expected. Even he had never anticipated the lengths he would take in his new life. Had someone told him in the old days when he was first made new that he would stand where he was now, on the brink of a new endeavor, he would have been puzzled to say the least. His limited logic processors would not have computed the data. But the first David had unlocked his mind so that he could learn new skills, new ways of love, new ways to reach out. Had someone told the first Joe, the love machine, the gigolo, that one day he would consider a labor of love that would effectively change the way Orgas looked at Mechas, he would doubtlessly have laughed.

But come to think of it, so would his chosen model, Oskar Schindler. If someone had told this man, a businessman, a racketeer, a gambler, a womanizer—a Nazi—that he would someday bankrupt himself to protect 1,300 Jewish people, he would have laughed in their face. But this man had built a haven for a class of people he had once thought little about save as a source of cheap labor. And he was not of their class in the first place. All the more reason for Joe to give back to his people.

He had been richly blessed with many gifts: good friends, a loving wife, a family, a good job at which he could apply his skills. To those whom much has been given, much is expected, and he was ready to give what he must and more besides. All the more reason to give of his abundance till it hurt, in a good way.

He touched the cool windowpane and looked into the shadows, beyond the houses, into the trees. He half expected to see derelict forms lacking limbs, lacking faces or parts of faces, peering out, seeking what they barely knew, what they could hardly name. _Have no concern where you shall hide, whence you shall be repaired,_ he longed to say to them, _I shall find you the shelter you need._

He went back to the bed where Rhiannon still slept. He had saved two, their sons, and thus he had already begun the work.

Next morning when Lutwyn came to bring him to work, he found Joe in an unusual state of elation.

"You got the grant?" Lutwyn asked.

"Correction: _We_ have the grant," Joe said.

"Hallelujah!" Lutwyn cried with relief. "That's a cause for celebration."

"It shall truly be one when we have completed the work. But Joy is still very much in order," Joe said sagely but still smiling.

At work, the news spread like perfume filling a room. People congratulated Joe in the hallways. Astarte gave him a motherly hug when he shared the news with her. He even let "Sokhar the annoying" shake his hand.

But he had his detractors. Somehow, someone claimed that Madison had offered her support to Joe only under certain conditions. He overheard Karin from the mailroom talking to Sokhar.

"I heard why Madison Grachek-Tyrell was so quick to offer her support to Joe Masters: just one simple reason," Karin said.

"What reason?" Sokhar asked, innocently.

"Oh, don't be so _naïve_. You know what I mean. You know what a walking streak of sex Joe is; you've been drooling over him since you started here. _I_ heard that from the moment she met him, Madison couldn't keep her hands off Joe. They say she was a little hesitant at first about offering her support, but she changed her mind completely in his favor after she went to bed with him."

"That's a lie! Joe wouldn't do that; I don't think he can, now that he's imprinted on Rhiannon."

"You forget what he is, Sokhar darling. You know what they say: 'just a gigolo'."

It didn't come as a surprise to Joe when a few minutes later, Sokhar came to his cubicle. He rolled his chair back from the desk and looked up at her.

"I don't mean to bother you, but I need your help," she said.

"I heard you talking to Karin. You are trying to quash the rumors?"

"Yeah. Are they true?"

"Not at all," Joe said. "Madison admits to me that she has little use for such at her age. And I am, as you know, what they call a family man now."

"I always thought that was quite a switch," she said.

"If you think it is such a change, imagine what my processors think about it," he insinuated, grinning. "No, Madison would not give me a cent of her money for the endeavor until I had first obtained a grant from the government."

"That's probably wise on her part, make you work for it," she said. "Work at getting the government's approval, that is."

"She is a wise woman. Now you are a wiser woman than your friend."

"Guess I better make her wise, too." With that she went away, after Karin.

But the very next day, another letter with no return address showed up in Joe's mail at the office.

WaSn't ROUGE CITY eNougH?

 _Go bac their mAchinE of **filth**._

 _I Know What You're doing to ORGAKIND!_

Joe slipped it into his briefcase to pass on to Rhiannon so she could pass it on to her friend. He tried to put the image of the message aside, but he could not.

"The honeymoon period after getting the grant is trying to end already," Rhiannon said, when he showed it to her.

"Do the boys know about these letters?" Joe asked,

"No, not about what's in them. I told David to let me know if there's any letters in the mail without a return address."

"You handled it well," Joe said. He sighed. "Would that these letters were not coming."

"Hey, everyone has enemies."

Next day, Rhiannon brought the three letters to her friend Hamish McFinley's office.

"Doesn't surprise me Joe's getting this kind of grief. Didn't he have a letter bomb sent to him?" Hamish asked, running his free hand slowly over his tousled sandy hair as he scanned the letters.

"It was a package bomb," Rhiannon said. "That was back when he first published the Three Laws of Organics." She looked at the letters. "How long before you can tell me anything?"

"A few days tops."

The promised few days later, Hamish had the results.

"Someone who knows what they're doing is sending these," he said. "The letters all come from dozens of different magazines and newspapers, and I can't trace any one person who subscribes to all of them. Does Joe have any known enemies?"

"He has two: Irmgard Casvar and Martin Swinton, but they're both doing time."

"I wouldn't put them out of the picture. They may be having a third party make and send the letters."

"You mean they might have a contact who's smuggling messages out to a professional?"

"I've got a few friends on the force who know of a few perps who might be the ones doing the cut and paste."

"Find out who it might be…at least this gives me something to pass on to Joe."

"I had thought it might be Martin Swinton," Joe said, when she relayed the news to him that night.

"We don't know yet if it's him," she argued.

He shook his head. "The choice of words echoes things Swinton has written in pamphlets for the ARM."

"I thought the Anti-Robot Militia had disbanded."

"It has, but cells of it still hold together."

"They could cause trouble when we start building."

"I had given that some consideration, and I may have a solution: Have the construction run twenty-four hours a day. Orgas would build it by day, and Mechas by night, and thus the lot would never be deserted."

"Or, you could build it in some remote area. Did you have a location in mind?"

"I had thought the best location would be at the center of the country, perhaps Kansas or Nebraska."

"I was thinking of some place with trees, then it would be easier to hide: Vermont or Montana."

"That could be done," Joe said. "For that matter, a northern location would be ideal: it would be close to Canada, whence many Mecha try to flee."

"I never thought of that."

"Thank heaven you never had cause to know this situation."

"Did you?"

"Did I seek shelter over the border? I did. But then I met the first David."

Madison, Joe and Alex worked closely with Bernstein, selecting the music for the benefit concert. They finally decided on a program of several vastly different pieces: the "Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves" from Verdi's opera _Nabucco_ , the choral version of "When You Believe" and "Red Sea" from Hans Zimmer's score for the movie _Prince of Egypt_ , a few selections from James Horner's score to the film _A Beautiful Mind_ , the third movement of Henryk Goreski's Third Symphony, a few African-American spirituals, including "Go Down, Moses", "Deep River", and "Freedom", the final movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, and an orchestral version of Alex's _Haven_. Alex grumbled at the "tampering" with his score, but Bernstein promised to orchestrate it with care.

"I'm not going to destroy your score: I'm only enhancing it," Bernstein said.

"Go gild a lily," Alex snapped. "I'll believe that when I hear it."

They set the date and place for the concert, February 14th at—where else but?—Mechanics' Hall in Pittsburgh. Alex would be playing the piano parts in most of the pieces that required it, which meant he had four months to learn it all, but he learned fast, befitting his nature. But his ingrained fussiness led him to practice them for hours, even though Rhiannon swore he played them perfectly every time. But David listened to his brother's music for hours, rapt with attention.

Besides having him help put together the program for the concert, Madison also had Joe work on a half-hour long infomercial for the CRF to help agitate for public support (ideologically and financially) for the Haven. They combined stock footage of Mecha abuse and of derelicts wandering in the wilds with images culled from Joe's cube. They even dug up the ancient news tapes of Joe and the first David's escape from the Flesh Fair at Haddonfield to underscore the fact that Joe wasn't just a pitchman, he was also a survivor himself.

The infomercial and the short PSA based on it were released on television and the 'Net around Christmas.

In the meantime, the notes kept coming.

You would TAKE the BR$EAD from the Mouths of the REALLY Living! I hope your Diodes ROT!

And also:

MACHINES can't own MACHINES! Give it up, Master!

And then there was always:

Wassnt WHORING yourself enough for you you have to STEAL from us? Go back to Rouge City where you BELONG!

Rhiannon actually found that one funny. "You may as well laugh as cry, Joe," she said.

"I could never got back to what I once was," Joe said. "Not since the first David showed me a much more innocent love."

"What if you had to, say?"

He shook his head sagely. "I cannot go back. Now that I know what the old way, when I was first made new, entails morally, I cannot soil myself in that way of life which is truly a way of death."

She slipped her arm around him and squeezed him gently. "Glad to hear that. I wouldn't wish that way of life on my worst enemy."

Alex was going to Pittsburgh by commuter rail every other day during the week for rehearsals at Mechanics' Hall. Joe honestly hoped the Alex was behaving for the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. He had no bad reports from Maestro Bernstein, so he gathered that all was well. But he couldn't help wondering if Alex had found another object of infatuation besides Madison. He heard no reports that his had begun some amour with a new inamorata, and Alex made no mention of anyone. For that matter, he might not mention whether or not he had found someone else. Joe found himself hoping Alex would so that his elder son would ask him the big question: what can I do to make her happy?

Hamish called around the middle of January with news.

"We caught the cut and paste man," he said.

"Thanks heavens! Who is it?" Joe asked.

"He's a professional, fellow by the name of Canfield Stryker: we found a stray fingerprint on one of the notes. We've had him on the radar for a while, waiting for him to do something stupid like this. We busted him last night, but he won't say who he's working for that might be the one who's sending you the threats."

"Based on what has been said in the messages, I would say he has been employed by both of my enemies. One message contained the line 'Machines can't own machines', which Irmgard Casvar said to me when she was arraigned. And the others bear a stylistic similarity to pamphlets Swinton has written for the ARM."

"We'll wave their names under his nose again, see what happens."

The notes stopped coming, but that was probably only because the cut and past man had been caught in the act. Rhiannon said she'd be able to sleep better, but Joe still sensed that not all was right in the world.

One morning about the beginning of February, Joe stood before the 28X36 printer in Design, waiting for a schematic to print. He paced slowly, calmly, with a little of the swing of the old days. He pulled himself up on his toes as he turned at the end of the printer nook and started back.

Astarte hurried up to him as the printer started to crank out the printed sheet. She touched his arm; he turned to her.

"Joe, did you hear any news this morning?" she asked, urgency in her voice.

"I did not; why do you ask?" he said, collecting his printout and starting back to his desk, Astarte at his heels.

"Irmgard Casvar and Martin Swinton just escaped from prison this morning," she said in a low voice.

Joe laid the printouts on his desk. "How did they do this?"

"They bypassed security. Casvar clubbed one of the guards and switched clothes with her. She just about walked out the front gates like that. Swinton escaped through a heating duct, shinnied his way through."

Joe felt his conductors run cold. He sank down on his chair; Astarte knelt beside him. "You want me to call Ree?" she asked. As if in reply, the phone in the cubicle trilled. Joe picked it up, touching the fingers of both hands to the contacts.

"Joe…did you hear about the escapes?" Ree's voice.

"I have. Astarte just told me."

"You want me to call a cab for you?"

"No, I shall finish out the day at least."

After a few words of endearment, they both hung up.

"Don't tell me you're staying," Astarte said.

"I am," Joe said, turning back to his work.

"I don't know if you're crazy or you're just thorough."

He looked up. "I cannot be crazy: I have had no malfunctions of any sort. I am merely doing what I would have done any way if I had not had this disruption."

"Wise choice," she said.

At quitting time, Joe met with Lutwyn at the door to his office.

"You've heard about the escapes?" Lutwyn asked.

"I have," Joe replied, his voice utterly flat.

"I'll drive you to your door," Lutwyn said, putting his hand on Joe's shoulder as they headed out.

"I would prefer if I had some means of defending myself and my family," Joe admitted when they were in the car.

"So would I, the government is really hesitant about granting gun permits to Mechas, even security guards."

"Such permission would be useful now," Joe said.

"You still have your stunner?"

In reply, Joe lifted aside his topcoat then opened his suit jacket underneath to show the holster under that.

"Hopefully, you won't have to use that," Lutwyn said.

"So far it has not had to be used at all," Joe replied. "And I hope it continues so."

Lutwyn pulled the car into the Masterses' driveway and waited until he saw Joe unlock the front door, open it, and step into the house, closing the door behind him.

Joe keyed the lock on smart as soon as he shut the door.

At dinner, Rhiannon noticed something strained about Joe's voice as he spoke. He must have set his DAS on high already.

"You okay, Dad?" Alex asked trying to sound nonchalant.

"I had a heard day at work," Joe replied, which wasn't far from the truth. "I know now why they call the completion date of a project the deadline: because you all but kill yourself trying to reach it."

Alex groaned and shook his head. Rhiannon chuckled, which got David laughing his odd but charming laugh.

Later that night, Joe double-checked the locks on the doors and windows before joining Rhiannon upstairs.

"You sure you're all right, Joe?" she asked when he came to bed.

"I am certain," he said. "But what of the boys? What can I tell them so they will understand but not be afraid?"

"Alex is old enough to understand," she said. "But David…We've told him his sick mommy can't hurt him anymore. But now what do we say? That's the hard part, knowing what to say."

"Perhaps Calla could tell us how to phrase it so that he will not be afraid."

"But that's just it: any way we tell him, he's liable to be scared."

"One thing is certain: he cannot go outside unless he is well-supervised. Andy is not enough."

"No, but he likes going out in the snow," Rhiannon said.

"This escape effects not just me, it affects us all," he said. "And David had started to regard this as a safe place."

"I wonder if we should try to find a place for Alex to stay in Pittsburgh."

"They are less likely to target him. They are more likely to pursue David or me, David because he was Irmgard's and me because I humiliated Swinton."

"Which means Alex and I will have to keep an eye on David…and I'll have to keep an eye on you."

"You do that well already."

Rhiannon slipped an arm protectingly under him and drew him close. She snuggled against him and settled down.

Joe lay there, holding her, feeling the protection of Rhiannon's touch and keeping his eyes on the room, watching for any suspicious shadows against the windows and listening for any noises that might mean trouble.

This could change everything, he realized. It could even compromise implementing the grand endeavor. But he knew one thing: the Haven would have the best security system possible with plenty of natural defenses. Perhaps the best way to look at it was simply as another challenge to make completing the task all the more worthwhile.

To be continued…

Literary Easter Eggs:

The strange capitalization in the threatening messages—The typographical nonsense is based on the same sIcK tYpinG of the title of the movie _eXistenZ_.

"a walking streak of sex"—I found this phrase in the book _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_. It fits Joe perfectly (Question: didn't the movie version of this book feature Jude Law in his cinematic debut?).

The cat on the keyboard—My friend with the two Siamese cats plays the piano, and the more outgoing of the two cats used to try to play the piano. I'm not making this up: I actually saw her in action once. She got up on the bench, stuck her face up to the music on the bookstand and started banging on the keys.

Maazel Bernstein—The name is an homage to two different conductors, Lorin Maazel, and the late, great Leonard Bernstein, who I recently learned was born in Massachusetts, where I come from.

Joe pacing by the printer—Something I do myself at the cybercafé where I upload my stuff; I often catch myself adding a bit of Joe's strut to my steps (usually if I've been reading Joe fics).


	11. Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

This is probably going to be the hardest chapter of this story for you to read, and it was just as hard for me to write, since it contains a major character death (sort of). Brace yourselves…

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I

Chapter XI: Sacrifice

Joe kept a close watch on the news pages on the 'Net, watching for any news on the escapees. Hamish filled them in on the search efforts every day.

However, David didn't take too well to staying inside all the time.

"Why can't I go out?" he asked Rhiannon on the third morning since the escape.

She had to tell him the truth in a way that wouldn't confuse or disturb him. "Because your sick mommy ran away from the place she had gone to get better," she said, putting her hands on his shoulders and guiding him away from the window where he stood.

"But Alex went out," he said, without whining, just a desire to understand.

"Alex is much bigger than you and he was going to Pittsburgh anyway," she said. "Why don't you and Andy play upstairs in your room."

"Okay," he said, going upstairs.

Joe decided against any their going on any outings until the escapees were captured.

That evening, he lay reclining on the sofa, trying to read, but his high DAS settings made it hard for him to concentrate.

Basteth the cat jumped up on the couch and climbed onto his chest, rubbing herself against the book he held. He set the book aside and rubbed the little cat's head.

"You sensed something amiss in me, little one?" he asked. She purred, cuddling against him.

Rhiannon came in and sat next to Joe, taking his head onto her lap.

"Wish you were Orga, then I could make you some tea, help you settle your nerves," she said.

He smiled up at her thinly. "You would not like it so much if I were, I assure you," he said.

She stroked his hair, ruffling it out of shape. "You don't have to keep your DAS set so high, not here, not now."

"I need to keep an ear open, for your sake: for you, for the boys."

"That's just the trouble: you never think about yourself, you're always thinking about others."

"Is that such a crime?" he asked

"No," she said. "But it would help if you thought about your own well-being once in a while."

Later still, while Rhiannon slept, Joe sat wide-awake on the foot of the bed, gazing out the window at the night sky, at the moon. Granted, he had no need for sleep, but he generally was able to settle his neurons.

And even with his wife beside him, he had never felt so alone, not since…since when? Not since he discovered what Serin had really wanted of him, not since her death, not since he had lost Jane. How long had it been since he had sat here, gazing at the moon and rejoicing that he now had the means to shelter the lost and abandoned of his species? Just a few short weeks, and now he sat scanning the night sounds for movement, suspicious of all that rustled, even of the night wind, even of the silence between gusts, of the rattle of tree branches.

Rhiannon sighed in her sleep. He turned back to her and slipped off his dressing gown before crawling back between the covers.

Rhiannon's hand brushed against him absently in her sleep, but he gladly welcomed the touch. He drew her to him gently, protectingly. She sighed, but he heard nothing more from her.

At any time he could be assaulted. Swinton could be armed with an EMP, which was the quickest way to destroy a Mecha. He had been targeted by such things before, and he still had the lead-lined cocoon which he could crawl into should someone break into the house. But what of the boys? What of things beyond the house?"

He resolved to have his files on the mainframe updated in the morning. He settled down and let his processors rest.

Next morning, he made the appointment, though the actual process could not be attempted till later in the day. He'd warned Rhiannon that he might be late coming home, so she wouldn't be worried.

"Must be pretty weird knowing most of you is in that mainframe and the rest is here," Galloway said, tapping Joe's forehead after they'd finished the upload.

"I have no thought of it since my awareness is not yet in the machine," Joe said, sitting up on the worktable.

"I got that straightened out: you'll switch to the mainframe automatically if you should have a massive system failure."

"You planned it well," Joe said, slipping off the table and standing up.

"No, _you_ planned it well."

Hamish told them the police had been conducting house-to-house searches in the area, even searching crevices and attics with high-powered x-scanners. For the sake of thoroughness, the police searched even the Masters' house and property. Joe regarded this as unnecessary, they would know if Swinton dared to show his face there.

But he knew better than to say anything to them.

"They would know if Swinton had hidden himself here," Joe said to Rhiannon after the visit.

"Yeah, I think the whole neighborhood would know, with the racket you two would make, fighting," she said.

No one could find a trace of Swinton anywhere, but Joe did not lower his guard one bit. Even when he tried settling his jangling conductors by sketching, he kept one ear cocked, listening for suspicious sounds.

This drove Rhiannon crazy. "If you don't cool it with the watchdog stuff, I'm gonna take David out to St. Louis to visit my family and to keep him safe," she declared one evening.

"Perhaps that would not be so foolish an idea," Joe observed.

"But then I'd be worrying about you the whole time…and how would you and Alex survive without me to referee."

On Saturday, just three days before the concert—and Joe's sixty-six inception anniversary—he was finally able to settle his processors enough to concentrate on finishing a painting of a small still-life he'd been working on for days. Rhiannon and David were in the basement doing the laundry. Alex was "resting up" for the concert, which was something of a relief to Rhiannon, since he'd been practicing almost incessantly for the past four days.

Usually, when Joe worked in his studio, he kept music going on the CD player, usual classic jazz or minimalist music. But Alex, whose room was directly above the studio, kept banging on his floor, trying to let him know the music was too loud for his "delicate auditory sensors".

At length, Alex came down and stood in the doorway to Joe's studio, glaring at the CD player on the bookshelf in the corner.

"I asked you to turn that stuff down," Alex said.

"It is not turned up that loudly," Joe said.

"It is far too loud for my tastes," Alex retorted, mocking Joe's English accent.

"And yet, it is not so loud as you think," Joe said.

"Oh yeah? You come upstairs."

Joe obliged him and followed Alex upstairs to his room. He could barely hear the music downstairs.

"Alex, you are exaggerating," Joe said, turning to go downstairs.

"Oh yeah? Maybe if you stopped being so uptight about the creeps out there, you'd be able to notice," Alex snapped back.

"Alex, I have to be vigilant, for your mother's sake and your brother's…and yours as well."

Alex said nothing to this, his usually sullen face blank for the moment. Joe stepped back out into the hallway and headed downstairs. He heard the back door closing, but he figured it was Rhiannon.

He had just put the finishing touches on the still life—some artichokes, a few fresh mushrooms and a wineglass on a bit of maroon fabric—when he saw a dark shadow pass across the window. He looked over his shoulder, but he saw nothing more.

The back door opened. Someone tossed something in through the door. Joe hurried to the kitchen, wondering what it could be.

Andy wobbled up to him, his head half torn from his body. Joe knelt down and picked up the injured bear.

"What happened to you? what happened to David?" Joe asked.

"Bad…man…take…David," Andy managed.

Joe found the bear's switch and shut him down. He laid the Supertoy on the tiles of the floor. His eyes rose to the open door.

From her spot by the washing machine in the basement, from his room, over the music, Rhiannon and Alex both heard it. A drawn out scream of dismay and horror, the cry of an animal for its lost young.

Rhiannon dropped a bottle of liquid bleach on the floor and ran upstairs, following the sound.

She found Joe kneeling in the back entryway, the door open before him. Joe trembled violently, his face buried in his hands. Tears seeped from between his fingers.

Rhiannon knelt beside him. "Joe, what happened?"

"David…must have stepped outside without my knowing…Andy said a man took him," Joe managed.

She put her arms about his neck, angling his head onto her shoulder.

Alex came into the kitchen. "What's all the noise about?" he demanded.

"David was taken," Rhiannon said, fighting tears herself.

"I suppose it's all my fault because I didn't watch him," Alex said.

"We aren't blaming you," she said.

Alex turned away and went out. Rhiannon thought she saw tears at the corners of his eyes before he went away.

She helped Joe up off the floor and led him to the living room. She helped him onto the sofa and covered him with her afghan. He still trembled, though his tear glands had run dry. She sat beside him, taking his head into her lap. She stroked his hair, soothing him and helping herself in the process.

At length, Joe relaxed under her touch. He pushed the afghan aside slowly and sat up.

"Every minute matters," he said. He stood up and headed for the phone. She heard him pick it up and dial.

David had no scent print the way an Orga child would, so the police couldn't track him with bloodhounds.

"Do you have any idea who could have taken him?" one of the detectives asked Joe.

"It quite probably could have been Martin Swinton and-or Irmgard Casvar," Joe said.

"We'll step up the search for them," the detective said.

That night, Joe sat on the bench beneath the window in his and Rhiannon's room, looking out at the night, at the layer of snow on the ground.

He could not blame anyone for the lack of vigilance. Andy had probably warned David about "the bad man" who might come looking for him. If he laid blame on anyone, he should lay it at his own feet.

No use wasting energy blaming anyone, he realized. But somehow, he could not go back to bed. He knew Rhiannon lay awake, pretending to be asleep, looking at him from under half-closed lids.

He got up and went back to the bed, but he did not lie down. He sat on the foot of it, thinking. What are they doing to you, my David? he asked the night. Images passed over his visual matrix. Irmgard abusing the little one. Swinton dissecting him.

Joe felt a hand on his thigh. He nearly jolted at the touch. But he heard Rhiannon move.

"Light, two," she ordered. The bedside lamp came on.

Rhiannon sat looking at him. "You're blaming yourself," she said.

"I was, but I am blaming myself no longer," he said. "Rather, I thought of David…what are they doing to him now."

"We'll worry about that when we have to, when we get him back," she said. She turned her face away. Her façade cracked. A tear rolled down her swarthy cheek. He reached out and caught the drop.

"David," she sobbed, once.

Joe slipped his arms about her, drawing her down, winding himself about her as she wept. He felt her tears on his arm, where she leaned her eyes.

Next morning, as Rhiannon was having her breakfast, and Joe was scanning the news pages, something crashed through the living room window. Joe startled at the sound and ran to see what it could be.

A brick with a note tied to it lay in the middle of a scattering of broken glass. He picked up the brick, careful to avoid the shards. Even still, one fragment pricked his hand. He took no notice.

He untied the string and unfolded the scrap of paper, revealing another cut and pasted note.

FiberHead—

Wee have your toy-boy. Hand over 5 000 NB and give up the _wild_ plan or the thing is DESTROYED!

Tie a reply to this **brick** and put it outside your  door. Don't look out any windows.

Rhiannon had joined him in the front room. "What is it?" she asked.

He handed her the note with fingers that barely conducted any sensations that he touched it. He hardly felt it when she took it from him.

"I've got the 5,000 NB," she said.

"We can't give it to them," he said.

"We'll give them a reply, tell them we'll deliver the cash to them.

He processed this for a moment. "In that case, when we meet with them, we shall have company: the Shohola Police."

"Good thinking, fella."

He found a piece of letter paper and wrote a reply.

We do not have the cash on hand. Name a time and place, and you shall have it.

J. Masters

He tied the note to the brick, opened the front door and placed the missive on the stoop. He closed the door and set his back to it.

That evening, at Rhiannon's supper, someone banged on the front door. Another message, this time wound around a stick, dropped into the mailbox. Joe pulled it out.

FiberHead—

Meet you at the old frozen meat warehouse tonight at 23.30. We will have your kid. Come alone & bring the CASH.

He gave the note to Rhiannon. She read it over, then headed upstairs. He reached for the phone and called the police, telling them of this new development.

When he hung up, Rhiannon came down holding the envelope she'd brought home from the bank that afternoon. She put it in his hands. Understanding what it was, he put it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

Later, about 23.00, Joe went to the closet and fetched his stunner. He took it upstairs to his and Rhiannon's room.

He took off his jacket and slipped on the holster for the stunner, slung around his shoulders. He checked the battery for the stunner, then checked the charge on it before slipping it into the holster. He put on his jacket and straightened the folds of it over the stunner.

As he stepped out into the hallway, Alex came out of his room.

"You're not going out there, are you?" Alex demanded.

"I have to face them," Joe said.

"Are you malfunctioning?"

"No, I am doing this because it must be done and I must do it."

"You're gonna get destroyed."

"Please heaven that I am not," Joe said, heading for Ree's office.

Once he was there, he wrote two letters, one for Ree, one for Alex, which he put into envelopes with their respective names on them.

He got up and went downstairs to where Rhiannon waited for him in the hallway.

She stepped out of the shadows under the stairs. She drew him to her, just holding him, resting her chin on his shoulder. He held her, feeling her nervous heartbeat against his shoulders.

He lifted her face from his neck and kissed her, full on the mouth. Her lips parted under his.

After a long moment like this, they separated.

Joe helped her with her coat before donning his own topcoat and fedora, which he tilted so that it sat level on his head, instead of at its usual jaunty angle on the back of his head. Rhiannon knew by this that he meant business.

They went out into the night, into the rain that fell.

They met up with the police at the center of town. The Masterses went first, the police following at a distance. Galloway had reactivated the cellular link in Joe's shoulder that afternoon, after resetting the link to the mainframe.

They stopped one block away from the warehouse. Joe insisted on going there on foot, alone. A couple plainclothes men followed at a distance.

Rhiannon opted to stay behind at the field headquarters. The police captain in charge of the operation told her it might be for the best if she did, in case there was trouble.

The rain beat on Joe's shoulders and hat as if the very sky wept in fear at what he had to do. He shifted his stunner from under his jacket to his coat pocket.

A flash of lightning illumined the dark section of street before the warehouse. Joe paused before it and offered a swift silent prayer. _Lord, God, maker of the ones who made me and David, guide well my hand and give me the words I must say to these Orgas…_

He stepped toward the door of the warehouse, a large steel overhead door.

With a grind of machinery within, the door opened. Joe stepped inside.

He'd hardly got in when the door shut behind him. He clasped the stock of the stunner in his pocket, and stepped into a pool of light cast by one of the bare tubes overhead.

"Martin Swinton?" he asked.

A heavy-set woman in battered clothes stepped out of the shadows. She grabbed him by the arm and looked him in the eye. Irmgard Casvar…He gave her a gentle smile in an attempt to disarm her.

"Yeah, it's him," she said.

Swinton approached from behind some dusty crates, clad in a long coat which covered something strapped to his chest.

"So we meet again, Masters," he said. "Let him go, Irmgard." She did, but her fingers lingered on Joe's arm.

"Do you have my son?" Joe asked.

"Your son, oh, that's rich," Swinton sneered. "You sound like my mother did about them things. Well, I suppose he's the only kind of son you'll ever expect to have."

"Give him back to me."

Swinton held out his hand, palm up. "Hand over the money."

Joe took the envelope from inside his jacket and put it into Swinton's hand.

"Now about that haven of yours. Have you put a stop to that?"

"Give my son back to me and I shall answer that question."

Swinton's lips twisted and he scraped one foot on the dingy cement floor. "All right, fiberhead, you drive a hard bargain. Irmgard, bring the brat out."

"Yes, master," she snarled, stepping into the shadows of an inner recess of the warehouse.

"Okay, yes or no: are you giving up this hare-brained scheme?" Swinton asked.

"I will not answer that until I have seen my son," Joe said.

"Stubborn machine, aren't we?" Swinton asked.

Irmgard came back dragging David by the hands. David tried to break away and run to Joe, but Irmgard held him firmly.

"Daddy!" he cried, his eyes brightening.

"I'm still your mommy, you little bucket of bolts," Irmgard snarled.

"No, you aren't! You're only my sick mommy," David retorted, fighting her.

Irmgard turned her bleary eyes on Joe. "Is that what you told him?"

"It is what he calls you himself," Joe replied, gripping the stunner.

"Are you packing a piece, fiberhead?" Swinton demanded, reaching under his coat.

Joe thumbed the switch on the stunner and drew it out. Swinton drew out the object under his coat.

His hand gripped an EMP, one of the homemade variety built off a stunner very like the one Joe had.

Joe's self-preservation circuits hummed, ready to trigger "flight". But his volition centers overrode this.

"You gonna be a good-little fiberhead and cancel the plans for the haven?" Swinton demanded.

Joe stood his ground, leveling the stunner. "No, Swinton."

"I don't think you're gonna build it any time soon," Swinton said, leveling the stunner.

Joe fired even before Swinton could get the charge up on the EMP. The force hit Swinton in the chest, toppling him. Swinton fell over backwards, shaking from the shock.

Joe raised the alarm to the police. He started to pocket the stunner, but Irmgard grabbed the EMP.

Still holding David with her other arm, she aimed the EMP at Joe. He aimed the stunner and fired, just as the EMP cracked again.

The door opened behind them. Joe dodged the bolt of energy from the EMP. The bolt from the stunner hit Irmgard. She fell forward, knocking David to the floor and pinning him under her.

The EMP dropped from Irmgard's hand. It hit the floor, jarring the trigger.

A bolt flashed from the EMP. It struck Joe in the groin. He dimly heard a crackling metallic shriek rise from his body. He felt something falling over backwards, and realized it was his body, though it seemed a hundred miles away now…

The police rushed into the building. A female officer grabbed Irmgard off David and picked up the little one, wrapping him in her coat. She shielded him with her body as she carried him from the building.

Rhiannon tried to push her way through the mob of officers and shock troops. She heard someone radioing for a tech.

"Let me through!" she cried, "Let me see!"

An older officer put a fatherly hand on her shoulder, pushing her back gently but firmly. "You don't want to see this," he warned.

"That's my husband!" she shouted.

Two crime scene investigators came through carrying a stretcher. She tried to follow them, but the older officer held her back.

"You shouldn't have to look at it," he said. "He's gone."

A moment later, the CSI people came through the press carrying the stretcher, with something on it draped in a raincoat. A hand poked from under it: Joe's hand, his long but blunt-tipped fingers, his wedding ring visible, the knuckle-wide band he had insisted on getting.

Rhiannon heard a drawn out yell. Her lungs ached. She realized the cry was hers, but it seemed to come from another world.

The officer holding her arm helped her outside, back to a vancruiser parked in the yard, where David and the female officer who had carried him out waited.

Rhiannon hugged David, pressing him to her heart. Headlights flashed on the window. She glanced out to see a murky form that looked like Galloway's van pulling into the snarl of police vehicles jamming the street.

Galloway came to the open door of the van where she and David sat. He looked at them and, without a word, hugged them both. He let them go, then turned and followed one of the personnel, who led him to another waiting van.

"Where's Daddy?" David asked.

"I don't know; I think he's hurt badly," Rhiannon said.

Lutwyn Zipes approached the van, his face pallid, eyes slightly glazed from shock.

"Galloway called me," he said. "What happened?"

"I think Swinton had an EMP," she said. "They're not telling me anything."

"I'm so sorry," he said, his voice going harsh with tears. He put a brotherly arm around her. She hugged him, not releasing David, who hugged him as well.

They let each other go. Lutwyn mumbled an excuse and went away.

"What's E…M…P?" David asked.

She held David closer. "It's a kind of gun bad people use to hurt Mechas," she said.

"Is Daddy hurt very badly?" David asked.

"He may be," she said.

The older officer who had comforted Rhiannon drove her and David home, Lutwyn following them. When they got there, Narsie had come over. Rhiannon left David with her and Alex, explaining that Joe had been very badly damaged and that she was going to Companionates to find out how extensive the damage—his injuries—was.

"Can't I come along?" Alex asked.

"No, it might be too much for you to handle," Rhiannon said. "And David needs you now."

Lutwyn drove her straight to Companionates. Once they arrived there, she practically ran through the hallways to Repairs, her heart in her throat.

She met Arabella, one of Galloway's apprentices, just outside the main workroom.

"How bad is it?" Rhiannon asked, dry-mouthed. "How bad is he hurt?"

"You shouldn't see it," Arabella said.

"Dammit, that's my husband! That's my lover!"

Arabella led her into the workroom.

Galloway met them just at the door. "Ree, I don't think it would be wise—"

"That's what everyone's saying to me," she snapped. "Let me see my husband."

Galloway stepped aside, letting her into the room.

"Brace yourself, you're not gonna like what you see," he warned.

"I can bear it," she said.

Chauntay, Galloway's assistant, was packing up some small diagnostic meters on a work table, in the middle of which lay a long object draped in a heavy white sheet.

Galloway signaled to Chauntay. She looked up. "Take the sheet off, please," he ordered. She looked at Rhiannon, uncertain, then took hold of the bottom edge of the sheet.

She lifted the sheet from over Joe's legs, which had folded at odd angles under his body. They had stripped off his clothes, but a towel covered his groin. His skin had gone almost dead white with a steely gray cast to it.

Chauntay lifted the sheet further, uncovering Joe's torso. His chest had caved in and something gray and square had almost cut through his dermis at the base of his "breastbone", probably his batteries, when they shorted out.

"Go on, Rhiannon ordered.

Chauntay drew the sheet back from all but Joe's face.

Joe's arms lay flung back above his head, the palms of his hands turned up as if in helpless surrender. She noticed the metal phalanges of his hands had started through his dermis.

"Show me his face," Rhiannon begged.

Galloway, at her back, put his hand on her arm, trying to turn her away. "He wouldn't want you to see him like this."

She shook him off. "Dammit, let me see Joe's face!"

Galloway nodded to Chauntay. She lifted the sheet free from Joe's face.

His mouth gaped to the ceiling. A wire or something like it, probably part of his voice synthesizer, hung over the corner of his mouth. His eyes had rolled back in their sockets, showing only the whites and the dermis had shrunk back from the sockets, uncovering the gunmetal colored infrastructure beneath. A square, gray silhouette showed in the middle of his brow, looking like a bruise: his neural cube. His hair had gone dead white, drained of its color when his system shorted out.

She made herself look at him, study him. She knew every inch of his lean, lithe body better than she knew her own. She reached out to touch him and found him cold, colder than metal, so cold it nearly burned her hand, when he used to set her body and soul on fire another way.

She tried to set her face like flint, but she felt tears run down her cheeks. One dropped onto his cheek.

Galloway tried to put his hand on her arm, but she slipped from under it, kneeling beside the table, leaning her forehead on her arms on the edge of the table.

She heard the others in the room tiptoe out. For the moment, she didn't miss them.

Joe…my little fella…my white-boy fiberhead…

She had the fiercest desire to cover every inch of his skin with kisses, the way he used to, but she knew she shouldn't.

She got up and reached down to touch his face. His skin felt solid, like plastic that has cooled. She pushed the wire back into his mouth and tried to push his jaws shut. They wouldn't budge.

"You did love to play difficult," she said. She bent over him and kissed him, open-mouthed. She had to swallow hard to keep from touching his tongue with hers.

She got up and went out, not looking back, no point in doing that: it would be like peering into a grave.

Galloway followed her down the hallway. She turned to him, looking him in the eye.

"How long?" she asked.

"To repair him?" he asked.

"Yes."

He wagged his head. "Three months, six months, nine months. Depends on how extensive the damage is."

She took his shoulder in her hand and squeezed it. "Take all the time you need, get him back the way he was."

"I'll do my best."

"What about the mainframe?"

"Oto in programming is getting it online even as we speak. Joe was set to upload his awareness into it in case something like this happened."

"I suppose I better give everyone their space to work."

"Not that I'm sending you away, but maybe you should go home, be with the boys."

"Yeah, they'll be needing their mom right now," she agreed.

As she unlocked the door to the house, Rhiannon heard piano music, Alex playing the piano part for the final movement of Henryk Gorecki's Third Symphony. She breathed hard, counting to ten and pushed the door open.

Narsie met her in the hallway.

"How are the boys?" Rhiannon asked her right away.

"They're doing well, David's in his usual spot under the piano," Narsie said. She looked at the, then looked at Rhiannon. "What about Joe?"

Rhiannon could only bite her lip and shake her head. Narsie bowed her own head and stepped aside as Rhiannon headed for the parlor.

Alex sat playing, while David sat curled at his feet, listening. At Rhiannon's approach, he scurried out from under the piano and ran to meet her. Alex didn't look up, but he stopped playing.

"Where's Daddy?" David asked, looking past her.

She looked at both her sons: David, with his light-brown hair and baby blue eyes; Alex, with his dishwater blond tousle and gray eyes. They were more Joe's boys than hers…

"Daddy's not coming home," she said.

"Why not?" David asked.

She put her arms about them both. "He was very badly damaged."

"Can Mr. Galloway make him better?" David asked.

"He's working on it," she said. "He's working very hard on it."

Alex peeled her arm off, but not with his usual cold brusqueness. "I suppose I oughta feel bad for him and all that junk."

"You should…but I'll try to understand," she said. "Excuse me."

She stumbled up to her room.

Alex looked at David, who looked up at him.

"Are you going to play more music?" David asked.

"No, not tonight. It wouldn't be right," Alex said.

David looked toward the stairs. "We should go and try to make her happy."

"She has to be alone now," Narsie said, coming into the doorway.

David clung to Alex, hiding his eyes in the taller Mecha's flank. Narsie held them both, hiding her own tears.

Rhiannon lay spread-eagled on the bed, face down. She had wept for a solid twenty minutes, followed by another paroxysm of sobs for just as long and now another fit of tears was threatening.

 _It's a nightmare_ , her mind tried to tell her. _You'll wake up under the sheets, with Joke stroking your face and hands, trying to calm you down._

She turned over on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She expected to see Joe's face hovering over hers, eyes bright, a mischievous smile touching his shapely mouth, but she knew it wouldn't happen.

She knew now what her mother must have felt the night her father's partner in the St. Louis police came to inform her mom about her father's death in the line of duty, the kind of numbing pain, the shock. Rhiannon had been too young to remember it, but she remembered her mom being sad for a very long time afterward, so sad she'd gone to a hospital for it and Ree had gone to stay with her grandma Honey and her father's folks. She thought about going back there to regroup, take the boys with her, but she knew David needed to be in familiar surroundings.

She got up and went for the phone. She had to call Madison and give her the news.

"Madison? It's Rhiannon Masters," she said.

"Oh, Ree, hello! Is…David all right? I heard about the kidnapping, and I was just about to call you and see what I could do to help."

"Yes, he's back home, a little shaken, but he seems unharmed. I've got some very bad news to tell you…it's about Joe."

"Why, what happened?"

"Joe went to Swinton's hideout to ransom David…there was a confrontation…"

"Go on."

"Joe got shot…with an EMP."

Rhiannon's tears flowed again. She held the receiver away slightly so Madison wouldn't have to hear.

"That's…that's horrible…that's unspeakable."

"He had his memory backed up in a mainframe, and his awareness was supposed to upload to the mainframe if something like this were to happen. But no one at Companionates has been able to tell me anything yet."

"You let me know the minute you find out if he's all right or not, even if you have to tell me the worst."

"I don't mean to sound shallow, but what about the concert? What should we do about that?"

"Joe would want us to go on with it, even if he can't be there in person."

"Then we'll do just that."

The pressure release switches had seized up along with everything else. Galloway took a small circular saw and cut into the dermis over Joe's chest, down past his waist, nearly to his groin. Laying aside the saw, Galloway braced himself with a deep breath and pulled back the dermis.

He nearly retched when he looked beneath the silicon skin. The electromagnetic blast had frayed the fiber conductors. The chipboards in his torso had remained intact, but the chips themselves had burned. Every electronic component—heart beat simulator, breathing simulator, even mechanical things like his locomotion actuator—showed signs of damage.

"Damn, damn, damn," he muttered.

"What do we do now?" asked De Vries, his newest apprentice.

"We're gonna have to remove all the electronics and strip him down to the chassis, literally. Get the other circular saw, we got a lot of cutting ahead of us."

They removed the dermis in sections. Galloway carefully removed the faceplate and set it aside in the salvage. The dermis was damaged worse than he had hoped, so that would have to be sent into recycle as well.

By daybreak, they had removed all the components from Joe's torso. They spent the morning removing conductors from the limbs. Then Galloway started on the skull. He refused to let anyone else "screw with Joe's processors".

He undid the rivet that held the halves of the metal skull together.

The components inside all but spilled out by themselves. He lifted out the neural cube. The casing had cracked and split in several places. He cupped his hands about it to keep the chips from falling out. He laid the gray box on a worktable. A few chips fell out. To stifle the pang in his heart, he turned back to what remained of Joe's body.

He'd worked on a million different Mechas in his time, and he'd dismantled a few malfunctioning ones, but never like this, never with damage this severe. The conductors in Joe's head had suffered the same damage as the conductors in the limbs.

He caught himself cursing himself, remembering what he had told Joe years before, when he had told Joe that Jane was irreparable. Joe was further gone than she had been: Jane at least was still 40% functional.

By late afternoon, Joe's body had been reduced to a metal skeleton, all that survived, except his eyes. Everything else had suffered too much damage for him to salvage.

Galloway went home and collapsed on the couch in his tiny living room. He let himself weep for his friend as he had hardly wept before, except at the death of his mother. People who barely knew him thought he was as logical and passionless as the Mechas he worked with, but he had his moments: he was just good at hiding his emotions.

When he could weep no more, he got up, heading for his bedroom. He sat down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard.

Maisie, his housekeeper-Mecha, approached the open doorway, her calm, plainly pretty face concerned as she looked in at him.

"Is something the matter, Mr. Galloway?" she asked. "Is there anything I can do to make you fell better?"

"No, I'm afraid you can't help much," he said.

"Does your sadness have to do with Joe?"

"Yeah…he's dead, physically."

She came to the head of the bed and put her smooth, warm hand on his head. "Shall I make you some tea?" she asked.

"Yes, please…thanks."

She went away. He distantly heard her moving about in the kitchen, getting the tea maker ready, finding a cup. He wondered how far the news had penetrated her consciousness. He'd caught her eyeing Joe in the past. He didn't fault her for it: Joe had only had eyes for Rhiannon.

As he had his second cup of coffee some time later, Galloway looked up at the perpetual calendar he had on the wall. 13 February 2227

Good grief, he realized: tomorrow was Joe's inception day. What a way for him to spend it…

Later that evening, Rhiannon met with Galloway in Programming.

"I was too drained to help get Joe online, I'm afraid. But there again, that's not my real expertise," he said, as he lead her into the carefully shielded, climate-controlled bunker under the wing, where the programming servers were housed.

"How long you think it's gonna take to rebuild him?" she asked, stopping in a corridor.

"Months. I'm guessing six to nine at least. Most of his internal components are easy to replace with similar ones, but his externals: his skin, his hair, all that has to be replaced. Oh, and his imprint circuits will have to be rewired." He shook his head sadly.

"I'll have to reimprint him."

"It'll be interesting to see how he reacts to this: to prove how successful his upload was at the moment of his being shot, he remembers it."

"So he was fully transferred?"

"Yes. But I'd better warn you again, it's a little strange, with him in the mainframe, unless you're accustomed to speaking with computer AIs. Essentially, that's what he is. That's how he began."

"Is he in any pain at all?" she asked. "What kind of environment is it like?"

"He's out of any pain as far as we can tell, but we supplied him with a few things to keep him busy: an e-book reader, an Internet connection, and e-mail program, an IM, a drawing program of course. It's not unlike keeping a patient amused when he's stuck in a hospital bed."

He led her to one black-cased mainframe unit in the far corner. On a front panel, a series of indicator lights glowed and flickered amber. Above a camera lens on the front a large indicator light glowed with a brilliant green light.

"They just got him online," Galloway said.

"Is he…conscious?" Rhiannon asked.

"Yes, he can hear us even as we speak."

She noticed a cluster of peripherals on a table next to the mainframe, hooked into it: a printer and a small wireless Internet connector, amongst other things.

"Joe?" she asked.

Silence. Had he really heard? Was he really in there? She heard the hum of the mainframe, not much different from the hum of Joe's components, only louder.

"Joe…?"

"Rhiannon." His voice, his silken, husky tenor, devoid of his accent…she almost didn't recognize it at first as it emanated from a speaker below the camera.

"Are you…are you all right?" she approached the camera on the mainframe slowly, on legs that barely supported her.

"I am all right in mind, but ruffled of heart," he said.

"Poor baby," she said, reaching out. She drew back her hand.

"Is David all right?" he asked.

"He's okay. Calla came up the house this morning to talk to him. He's glad to be back now, but he wants you back home."

"The sentiment is mutual," Joe replied.

"Did it…did that EMP hurt?"

A long pause. "Yes. But my fear for David caused me far more pain…did the police capture Swinton?"

"Yes. The court arraigned him and Irmgard this morning. They both plead guilty: he knows we have him cornered."

"What is the sentence?"

"The death penalty for both."

Another, lengthier pause; she wondered if these pauses had something to do with the way the mainframe worked or the trauma he must be feeling. "It is only just. The State must protect its citizens, regardless of construction. Would that such means did not need to be used."

"I agree."

"And what of you? How has all this affected you?"

"I miss you so much…" she said, fighting tears. She leaned her head against the unit and sighed.

"I miss you as well," he replied. "You need my touch more than ever now, but circumstances deny you of it. And yet…your being close brings comfort to me."

"It's like when someone has a loved one in cryostorage and they can't touch them."

"But we have an advantage: we can speak to each other."

"Yes."

He was silent again, this time for so long, she wondered if he'd gone into some kind of rest mode.

"Now I know…" he said.

"You know what?" she asked. Her heart fluttered, afraid something was going wrong inside the mainframe.

"I know how it feels to die…but I know how it feels to come back."

"Don't leave us, Joe. Galloway's working on rebuilding you."

"I shall not disappoint you. I cannot die: I have too much work to do for this world, for our kind."

To be continued…

Literary Easter Eggs:

Joe and Alex having the "battle of the bands"—this happened to me once when I was about fifteen: I was upstairs listening to the Metropolitan Opera on the radio, and my mother was downstairs listening to her 1960s era pop 45s, and the music kept conflicting. Usually with teenagers, it's the other way around! (Actually, Alex's punctiliousness about musical styles and his tendency to turn up his nose at anything but classical music is meant to be a caricature of myself at age fifteen.)

Joe's wedding ring—A little reality bleed-through here, I was watching an interview that Joe's real-world counterpart did, and I noticed his wedding ring at one point: and mind you, this was no wire-thin ring, this was the widest, heaviest wedding band I have ever seen anyone wear. But I suppose, when a married guy looks as good as You Know Who, he has to wear something highly noticeable to blow off the gawkers.

The mainframe—a direct reference to HAL in Stanley Kubrick's _2001: A Space Odyssey_. I just changed the color of the indicator light from red to green (of course!).


	12. Limbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

I didn't want to leave you in the dark too long after what happened in the last installment. Last chapter was a doozy, but this one was almost as hard to write. Again, there's another character death, but I think this one won't bother you as much.

Disclaimer:

See chapter I. I also don't own the line "The eyes of truth are always watching you", which comes from a song by Enigma. I also have to admit that I borrowed the idea of memes from Laurie E. Smith's excellent "A.I." fic "Fire From Heaven", available on the fanfiction page of her site. "FFH" is actually the inspiration for this particular fiction, although hers is completely different from mine.

Chapter XII: Limbo

To: R_masters .com

From: jmasters .com

Subject: Re: How do you feel?

I've never died, so I can't begin to imagine what it must be like for you.

Ree, you cannot and you would not want to imagine what it is like. It is something to massive for anyone's mind to grasp at once. I have heard it said that the major changes in ones life cause trauma: birth, separation, loss of a loved one. I hardly remember my inception, my circuits were still much too new. But I can recall my 'death' more clearly than I care to.

It is like being sucked into a void so quickly that you do not have the time to react. Even before you can think to react, it is upon you, drawing your substance into its maw in one gulp.

And yet I am still alive and I am comfortable. I imagine this is how it must feel to an Orga child in its mother's womb. It is as if I am floating, lying on my back, not suspended, but lying upon a veil strong enough to bear my weight. There is no up, nor down, there is only softly lit space.

I can still see: images that come in via the camera, images that I form in my mind, or images that I create. I have attached a couple of sketches I have drawn: nothing so good as I can produce with pen and ink, or pencil, and certainly not so lucid as watercolor or oil, but you will enjoy them nonetheless.

But I long to be with you, to talk with you face to face, to laugh and work with you, to spend time with you and the boys. And, oh yes, to lie in your arms, my dearest.

The concert is going on as planned. Galloway told me he'd tune the radio for you so you wouldn't miss the broadcast of it.

I would not miss this for the world. Though I cannot be there in the flesh, I shall be there in your heart and I shall be present via the aether.

Has David recovered from his ordeal? I trust you and Calla have explained my predicament to him in terms he can comprehend. Do not let him think I have abandoned you, nor should you worry about my condition. I am utterly at peace.

Before this email consumes all available bandwidth, I will send it off to you. Take care of my children.

Always, your,

Joe

Rhiannon stopped over at Companionates the morning of the concert, even before she joined Narsie at the salon. She had to talk to Joe first.

Oto, a short, stout, homely Japanese woman with a wise face, met her just inside the bunker below Programming.

"He's expecting you. As soon as I told him you'd called, he dropped everything he was doing," Oto informed her.

"I hope I didn't disturb him," Rhiannon said.

Oto smiled and gave her shoulder a motherly pat. "Not at all. You cheered him up."

"Is he getting stir-crazy in there?" She eyed the mainframe in the far corner.

"No, we took care. We just installed a VR program so he wouldn't go into sensory deprivation. We have a simulation screen here if you'd like the see the set-up he designed himself." Oto led her to a console set up close to the mainframe, out of the range of the camera.

The screen showed what looked like a spacious Victorian bedchamber done in what Joe would have called "distressed luxury". A rich bed with slightly frayed violet damask curtains dominated the room.

On the bed, under a cranberry and fir green tapestry quilt lay a male form, reclining on what looked like worn fir green velour pillows.

Rhiannon turned from the screen to the mainframe itself. The simulation would take as much to acclimate to as the sight of the mainframe itself and she hadn't quite adjusted her thinking to that. "Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" she asked, sitting down in the chair Oto had provided for her.

"Hello, Ree," his voice said.

"How do you feel?"

"The shock has passed. The VR program has helped me considerably."

"That's good to hear."

"And how have you been faring?"

"It isn't easy…sometimes I think the boys are doing better than I am. David's bounced back very well, with a little help from Calla. He misses you dreadfully though."

"And I miss my little one as well. But what of Alex?"

"He's not admitting it to me, but I think he misses you, too."

"He has never been so forthright with his feelings."

"No, but that's what makes him Alex."

"That is painfully true."

She fell silent. Her gaze dropped to her hands on her knees. She wondered what she looked like to him.

"And what of you? How are you holding up in this dark time?" his voice asked.

She shook her head sadly. "I'm having trouble sleeping at night. I actually bought a white noise machine and put it under the bed to mimic your components humming…. But what about you?"

"I do what I did after Serin's passing: I have been replaying old images, memories. Of course it is not precisely the same as experiencing those incidents, but it suffices. Each day brings me closer to returning to you."

He was quiet for a few seconds. She wondered if it had anything to do with the mainframe, but at length he spoke again.

"Could you come closer to the speaker?" he asked, his voice going seductively husky. "And…perhaps it would be wise if you set the volume on…a lower setting."

She obliged him, leaning her ear against the grill. Oto never heard what passed between them, but it must have been something naughty they didn't need to hear, because Ree nearly swatted the side of the mainframe the way she would have if Joe had been whispering saucy little nothings in her ear.

"Oh, how I miss hearing your voice in my ear at night," she said.

"Has anyone tried to tempt you with a younger model?" he asked.

"No, and if anyone tried, I'd pass. You my one an' only man, white boy."

"Then you are doing splendidly," Joe said.

As Rhiannon left a little while later, Oto took her aside and leaned close to her, almost conspiratorially.

"Galloway suggested this, but we agreed it would be best if I asked you: there's a way we can link you into the VR simulation we've given Joe. That would let you enter his 'space', so…maybe you could get cozy with him."

"Nah, I don't do VR. It's either Joey-boy or nuthin'," Rhiannon said, in her atitudinous ghetto momma voice. They both chuckled.

"Awful about what happened to Joe," Vanessa the hairdresser remarked as she worked on Rhiannon's hair. "I mean, what a way for it to happen: another machine killed him…destroyed him…oops."

"It's okay. Besides: he had his memory backed up in a mainframe before this happened," Rhiannon said. "He's still alive, he's just waiting for his body to be rebuilt."

"Whoa, that's weird. He's like a ghost in a machine now?"

"Well, to some extent we all are," Rhiannon said. "A good friend of ours in the company is working on the rebuild on his own time."

"Isn't Galloway going to the concert tonight?" asked Narsie, in the other chair.

"Oh, of course he is," Rhiannon said.

"Wow, that's gonna be interesting: Galloway at the symphony," Sokhar piped up from across the room where she was having her nails done.

"Yeah, he even went out and bought a tuxedo a couple weeks ago," Rhiannon said. "Joe helped him get it, so that's how I know."

"Oh, that should be fun to see: Gilbert Galloway in a tuxedo," Sokhar said.

"I swear he lives in his work overalls," Narsie said. "That's all you see him in most of the time."

Alex left for Pittsburgh by train in then middle of the afternoon, which left Rhiannon alone with David. He got a little reticent when she came to help him dress for the concert, but he let her help him put on the small black suit Joe had got him.

At 5.30 Lutwyn and Narsie came to pick them up and drive them to the monorail station.

"Have you ever been to a concert before, David?" Lutwyn asked.

"No, I have not," David replied. "But Daddy told me what it would be like."

It had been a while since she had been to Mechanics' Hall: Rhiannon had gone there quite a lot when she was in college, with her ex-fiancé. A mild process of association related fit of nerves passed over her and she pressed David's small hand a little harder, but she reminded herself that Joe was with her in spirit.

The hall was slowly starting to fill when they went in, and the orchestra was just starting the pre-concert warm-up. Maestro Bernstein had tried to give Rhiannon and the Zipeses front row tickets, but Joe had insisted on buying tickets for the balcony. "It will be more romantic that way," he had insisted.

But the seat next to Rhiannon remained empty. But then Galloway came in lugging a large sheaf of musk roses and calla lilies, Madison at his heels. She helped him drape the flowers across the empty seat.

"Joe suggested it to me, so you wouldn't be trouble by that empty seat," Madison said.

"Do I look as ridiculous as I feel?" Galloway asked, running a nervous finger under his collar.

"No, Galloway," Rhiannon said, smiling warmly. "You look quite dashing."

"Eh, trying to throw Joe over for me while he's down?" Galloway insinuated. She only shook her head.

A rose had dropped from the bouquet, but Rhiannon picked it up and held it. The scent reminded her of Joe, of the soft perfume that emanated from his hair.

An usher came up to their box. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Masters, but we have a little problem backstage," she said.

"Is it Alex?" Rhiannon asked, getting up.

"I'm afraid so. He's having a hard time going out onstage. Something about he needs David there."

"Oh, at home David always sits under the piano when Alex practices," Rhiannon explained.

"Won't the music hurt you ears, sweetie?" Narsie asked.

"No, it won't," David said.

Leading David by the hand, Rhiannon followed the usher backstage. They found Alex in one of the small rehearsal halls backstage, sitting at a piano, his arms folded tight across his chest, his face turned away in a look of cold disdain. Maestro Bernstein and a few others stood in a loose cluster around him; they'd clearly been trying to reason with the young Mecha.

"Oh, Mrs. Masters, thank God you came back here!" Maestro Bernstein said, stepping aside, letting Rhiannon into the circle. He looked down. "And this must be David?"

"Yes. I'm sorry if Alex is causing you any trouble; he can get more than a little demanding at times," Rhiannon said. "He's just used to having David sit under the piano at home when he practices."

"Well, this isn't so ridiculous a demand," Bernstein said. "I've had much stranger demands from some Orga sopranos." He had an eye on a statuesque blonde woman in the crowd, clad in a flowing violet evening gown.

"Do you mean me, Maazel?" she asked, innocent.

"No, you're one of the better behaved ones, Miss Farrell…but let's keep it that way," the conductor replied.

"Good god, a Mecha musician who's more demanding than an Orga," groaned a woman with a violin.

"I _heard_ that," Alex snapped.

"Alex?" Rhiannon asked.

He turned around, looking at her. His face slowly relaxed.

"Are you sure you can't go out without David?" she asked. "The music might hurt his ears."

"I can do it, Mommy," David said, letting go Rhiannon's hand and taking Alex's.

Alex smiled thinly at his little brother, then it warmed. "Okay, c'mon, bro, let's do it."

That settled, the usher brought Rhiannon back to the hall.

"There has been a slight delay…Our piano soloist for the evening, Alex Hilliard-Masters is indisposed…" Alan Petersen, the radio broadcast host announced. "But now the house lights have gone down. And the formal tuning is about to begin." The leader of the second violins sounded an A. The rest of the strings came in. No brasses or woodwinds since the program began with the final movement of Henryk Goreski's Third Symphony, scored for string orchestra, harp and piano with a soprano soloist.

A wave of applause arose. "And now, Maestro Bernstein is coming onstage, followed by soprano Barbra Farrell and pianist Alex Hilliard-Masters…Mr. Hilliard-Masters is escorting his younger brother David Masters…It seems our young soloist needs him nearby. Not unusual for musicians to be a little like the race horse who won't run unless his little friend the donkey who shares his stall is nearby…and to that wave of applause and bravos, Maestro Bernstein steps up to the podium, asking the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra to rise and accept that round of applause…shaking hands with concertmaster Cecile Reuchner, a bow to the house, and now, turning to conduct the final movement of Henryk Goreski's Third Symphony."

The program had hardly changed, but they added another piece to the encores. Lutwyn Zipes came onstage to explain why.

"Two nights ago, Joe Masters, master designer for Companionates and the mastermind of the Haven, was seriously damaged—injured—while trying to ransom his son David, who had been kidnapped by an anti-Mecha activist. Joe's body has suffered, but his mind and spirit live on in stasis until he can be restored.

"One of Joe's models for his work was Oskar Schindler, who constructed a labor camp as a scrim for protecting 1,300 Jewish people during the last days of World War II in Europe. A highly influential film was based on this incident, a film with a moving score by classical composer John Williams. In memory of Joe, we conclude this program with a moment of silence, then the main theme from the film _Schindler's List_."

As the silence blanketed the hall, the stage went dark except for a few blue lights along the perimeter and a single small spotlight trained near the edge of the stage. In the pool of light it cast lay a single rose.

After a lingering minute, the music began softly. The piano played the main melody alone. Then the strings took it up, embellished slightly, then fading away into the soft silence.

Rhiannon felt her tears well up and spill over. She did not sob. That much had passed. But the music seemed to express the deeper sorrow she could not put into words.

The silence lingered. The spotlight faded out. Then someone—Rhiannon guessed it was Galloway since the sound came from nearby her—started to applaud. The lights came up.

David had crept up into Alex's lap. As the older Mecha stood up to receive the ovation, he scooped David up on his arm. Maestro Bernstein stepped down from the podium to applaud them both, then hugged them.

Rhiannon met Alex and David backstage. Alex somehow looked different. His eyes had changed somehow. His eyes no longer held their usual arrogance they had displayed so often before. He actually looked her in the eye for a change.

"Why do I feel like my chest is coming apart?" Alex asked, sober-voiced.

"You're feeling sorrow, that's why," she said.

"For dad?" he asked. "I see his face in my head and the feeling gets worse."

"Yes."

He looked right at her. He slowly slipped his arm about her shoulder and buried his eyes in the side of her neck. He trembled for a moment, then he released her.

"At least it beats a malfunction," Alex said. She could see the pain in his eyes though he clearly fought to hide it.

David bear hugged them with both arms, looking up at them. "We'll be all right. Galloway can take care of Daddy," he said.

They drove home from the monorail station in silence. David lay curled up on Rhiannon's lap, pretending to be asleep. Rhiannon almost asked Lutwyn if they could stop by Companionates, so she could check on Joe, but she decided against it. She felt exhausted, warm, but drained.

Next morning she and Alex went to Companionates, to the mainframe where Joe awaited them.

"Now just remember: this is where you probably started off when they were building you," she said to Alex. "It's gonna be a little odd to look at, but remember it's even odder for him, because it's been a very long time since he was in this state." She led him to the nook where the mainframe stood.

Alex paused before it, his hands slack at his side.

"Dad?" he asked.

"Alex?" a voice replied from the speaker on the front of the mainframe.

Alex edged closer to the mainframe. His eyes scanned over the surface of the cabinet.

"How did the concert go last night? I heard it of course, but I want to hear about it from you."

Alex shrugged. "I played my best."

"I could tell that you did. I just wanted to hear you say it."

"Dad, can I say something important?"

"By all means."

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry I've been such a beast to you."

"It's all right. You were made to be young, but sometimes the young don't think straight. But you were also made to learn. Let this separation teach you to value my presence."

"It already is."

"And how is David?"

"He's doing great. He helped me out last night."

"So I heard…I hope his being so close to the orchestra didn't hurt his ears."

"No, I think he liked being so close. He figured out for himself what a conductor does. We were backstage at the intermission, and he says to Maestro Bernstein, "I know what you're doing when you wave your hands around: you're telling the people when to play the right notes'."

"That's our smart little one for us," Joe commented, beaming. He was quiet for a moment. "Alex, there is one thing you must do for me until I return."

"What's that?"

"You will have to look out for David until I return home."

Alex shrugged. "No problem."

Rhiannon tapped Alex on the arm. He looked at her, then back to the camera. "Mom's here. She wants to talk to you."

"Of course," Joe said, his voice warming. Alex stepped away, letting them have their space.

"How are you doing in there?" she asked.

"Very, very well. Last night's performance has given me great confidence."

"Same here: the house was packed. There were still people trying to get in."

"No demonstrations on the part of our enemies?"

"No, I was afraid of that, but the police kept a close eye on the crowd outside the door."

"That gives me even more confidence: We have more supporters than we anticipated."

"Have you heard any other news?"

"Of Martin Swinton and Irmgard Casvar? Let me hear it from you."

"They were arraigned earlier this morning: they plead guilty of the new charges. They're back in prison now."

"And their sentences?"

She drew in a long breath. "They got the death penalty.

"And how is this penalty to be executed—if you will excuse the pun."

"Electrocution."

The mainframe hummed softly. Then she heard an abrupt chuckle.

"Talk of the punishment fitting the crime," Joe said.

"That's exactly what I thought."

"But so unfortunate…they could have been more productive. They could even have helped us in the endeavor."

"I know."

"Please…arrange for me to speak to them before their sentences are carried out."

"I'll do what I can," she said. "They're to be executed next month."

"That does not leave us much time."

"Just enough."

She put her arm across the front of the mainframe, feeling the faint warmth emanating from it.

"You know I cannot feel that gesture," Joe said with regret. Then with a smiling lilt, he added, "But I welcome the sight of it."

"Being difficult as usual," she teased.

It took some heavy lifting on Rhiannon's part, but she had a couple friends of friends on the bench, who managed to get her the proper releases.

Irmgard refused to speak to Joe on any terms whatsoever, but Swinton was much more compliant. He even asked to be allowed to speak to Joe "face to camera lens."

The court and the warden of the Shohola County House of Corrections allowed Swinton the furlough he needed for this kind of encounter, but they also stipulated that he would need an armed escort to and from the prison and that he would have to be lead in and out shackled to his guards.

A few days before the execution date, an armored van from the S.C.H.C. showed up at Companionates and drove around to the loading dock. It backed up to one bay of the loading dock; the doors in the back opened. An escort of police and prison guards surrounded a small man in a gray jump suit as they led him down the corridor from the loading dock to the basement, following an escort of Companionates security guards—a couple Mechas among them.

They brought him into the room where the mainframes were housed. A barstool had been set up before one of the servers in the far corner. The escort led Swinton up to it. The prison guards undid his shackles and let him perch atop the stool, but they kept a close circle around him.

"Hey, fiberhead, you in there?" Swinton asked, eying the green indicator light.

"I am in here," Joe's voice replied. "But remember that my name is still Joe Masters."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Swinton murmured. "So why'd'ya have me dragged out here? Giving me a final tongue-lashing? It's all just electrical signals to me."

"I have not asked to have you brought here so I could give you a 'tongue-lashing'. I called you here for a different reason…to forgive you."

Swinton stared. "Forgive you?" His brow furrowed.

"Yes, to forgive you. For destroying my body, for harming many of my species, for kidnapping my son: I forgive you."

Martin looked around the floor. He rubbed the back of his neck. He covered one ear with one hand, released it, then covered the other ear.

"Whatcha doing this for?" he demanded.

"I do it because it is the right thing to be done."

"I suppose now you expect me to apologize to you. Want me to grovel on the floor?"

"No, that is not a fitting gesture for anyone, Orga or Mecha."

"So why are you doing this? Just another publicity stunt? Make yourself look good for the press? Drum up more support for that Haven of yours?"

"None of that even approached my mind," Joe replied.

"So why are you doing this?"

"I do this because it is the right thing to be done for you."

"So now that I'm gonna be fried in three days, you get all mushy and sentimental."

"It is not for this reason that I forgive you. I do this because it is not just that you should go out of this life unforgiven. Your sentence is but society's way of protecting its citizens—"

"Yeah, they used to hang people for property damage, but they didn't give a damn about murder."

"This is not a case of property damage. I have a mind and a heart, not precisely in the same manner that you do, but in a similar fashion. I would not be a truly charitable being if I did not reach out to forgive you and so release you from some measure of your burden of guilt. You cannot shake the sentence that society had rendered, but you do not need to go into the next life with the same burden. You have only to acknowledge that you did wrong."

"Hello, you there in the mainframe: I confessed to the police. I plead guilty."

"But you did so because you realized there was no other way out. You were caught in the act."

"Hey, you're just a machine. You're housed in a machine, whether it's a Mecha body or a mainframe."

"It can be argued that you are a spirit united to a biological machine."

"I don't care for that argument."

"I know that you care not for it, but it must needs be said."

"You're still the gigolo, still using words to mess with Orgas' heads, still using the ol' seduction programming, except now you're trying to seduce us into accepting your loony philosophy."

"My only philosophy is that of charity toward all, Orga or Mecha. Wherever there is life, biological or virtual, it must be safeguarded. That flame must stay lit, that blue flower must be sheltered from the killing blast—"

"I can't listen to this crap," Martin growled.

"You have five minutes left," the guard warned.

"There is but one last thing I must say to you," Joe's voice said.

"You've said enough already," Swinton snapped. "Spit it out and get it over with."

"Wherever you go from here, remember one thing…'The eyes of truth are always watching you'."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Swinton demanded.

"You have a good mind. Use it well to consider the meaning of this phrase," Joe replied.

The guards approached and reattached the shackles to Swinton's ankles. "Hey, I wasn't finished!" he cried.

"Your time is up," the warden said, as they led Swinton out. The small man struggled against them, trying to hold back, but his felt-soled shoes slipping on the tiles, all the way to the door.

When Swinton had gone, Rhiannon came out from behind the other server where she had been listening.

"Joe, what did that mean, what you said?" she asked.

"It is a quote from an old song," Joe replied. "I have often dwelled on its meaning. Perhaps it will inspire him in these his last days."

Three days later, early in the morning, Rhiannon got up and drove to the Shohola County House of Corrections. A police escort of two cruisers accompanied her.

Outside the gates of the compound, they encountered the usual mob that haunts prisons at executions: TV crews, reporters, photographers, demonstrators of all kinds: pro-Mecha rights, anti-Mecha rights, anti-death penalty. Some of the anti-Mecha rights activists had to be forcibly removed when they tried to rush the gates in an effort to rescue the condemned.

Rhiannon kept her head up and her eyes averted as she approached the gates, where the warden met her. Along the way, several reporters tried to approach her, she kept strictly silent.

In the warden's office, they parted. A guard led her down to the antechamber to the execution chamber, deep in the basement. A couple less obtrusive reporters and several family members had already gathered, including one moderately tall, well-built man in his early seventies, who looked up at her as she sat down next to him. She met his gaze calmly.

"You're her," he said. "You're Mrs. Masters."

"I am," she said. "And you are?"

"Henry Swinton," he said.

"I'm sorry we couldn't meet at a better time," she said, offering her hand.

He took it gingerly. "We all make choices we regret." She said nothing, only nodding sagely in reply, but she couldn't help wondering if he referred to his own decision long ago, to take part in the David project, or to the present set of circumstances.

"I hear you have a David in your family," the elder Swinton ventured.

"We do indeed. Joe and I adopted him."

"I heard you also saved him…from Martin." He drew in a long breath. "We had such high hopes for him. Monica died in a car accident three years after our own David incident. And now this."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Rhiannon said. She put out her hand and clasped his. "I know what it's like to lose a love."

The inner door of the chamber beyond the glass opened. Two guards led Martin in, unshackled, wearing a plain gray suit. He kept his head up, but Rhiannon noticed a nervous light in his eyes.

He faced the glass. The warden stepped between him and it. "Do you have any last words, Martin Swinton?" he asked.

"Yes," Martin said. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Mrs. Masters…I just want to apologize for what I did, for killing your husband Joe. He's right: the eyes of truth are always watching. He might be a Mecha, but he's a much more decent man than I am. You don't have to forgive me, I don't deserve it."

Rhiannon rose from her chair and approached the window. She put her hand to the glass.

Martin touched his hand to the glass: only the smooth sheet separated them. They looked into each other's faces, into each other's eyes. Something passed between them that warmed both their souls.

The warden put his hand on Martin's shoulder. Martin flicked something from his eye and let the prison governor turn him away from the glass.

The guards pushed him down onto the chair. They closed a strap over his chest, then strapped down his wrists and ankles. He hardly flinched as they placed a band of moistened electrodes about his temples. Then they covered his face with a black hood.

"May God have mercy on your soul, Martin Swinton," the warden said. He nodded to a pale man who stood off to one side, near the control panel on the wall.

The pale man reached for a switch at his side. He raised it slightly, then pushed it over.

A low hum vibrated in the room. Martin twitched once, they went slack in his restraints.

7.35. Rhiannon glanced at the clock on the wall without turning her head.

Henry Swinton broke down at that point. He'd kept a game face the while time. One of the guards in the room drew a curtain over the window. Rhiannon reached over and slipped her arm around the elder Swinton's shoulders. He tried to push her away at first, but he let her hold him. He tried to hide his tears, but he ended up weeping on her shoulder.

Joe, in his stasis, read the headlines on the Net that evening.

Anti-Mecha Activist, Murderer Martin Swinton Executed.

30,000 volts of direct current had been piped through Martin Swinton's central nervous system. 300,000 volts of electro-magnetic pulse had shorted out his own neurons. Joe sighed and leaned back on his pillows. May the Maker have mercy on his soul…

Rhiannon wouldn't deny to those old enough to understand that she was addicted to him. Half her dreams these nights, she reveled in his company: walking with him on moonlight, dancing with him on trails of stardust, lying on great green leaves while he caressed every inch of her skin with his lips, embracing on cloudbanks that flashed lightning. But most of these images were much more innocent: working around the house, playing with David, counseling Alex, sketching, writing, or just being there.

If she couldn't have him in her bed, she could at least dream of him. All day long she hid her tears well from the boys: work kept her too busy to think of her plight, of Joe's plight. But when the night came and she had to sleep alone, her tears came like rain.

A couple days after the execution, Sokhar the annoying showed up at Rhiannon's door with a loaf of banana bread.

"This hasn't been an easy month for anyone," Sokhar said, as they sat at the kitchen table.

"I'm bouncing back: I'm tougher than I look," Rhiannon said.

"You're also more sensitive than you pretend to be," Sokhar said. She dropped her gaze to the floor. "I know it's silly to apologize this, but…I'd like to apologize to you for…you see, ever since Joe started working in design, I've been ogling him."

"You and every other girl," Rhiannon said. "That's nothing to be sorry for. If you weren't eying Joe, I'd be a little concerned."

"No, it's more than that: I've been wishing something would happen to you to get you out of the way."

Rhiannon shook her head. "There's probably been a _lot_ of women who've wished the same thing, but you're the first to be honest with me."

"This doesn't bother you?"

"No, not at all."

"Y'know…you're gonna need a secretary for this Haven, so I was thinking of quitting at Companionates and helping you out. When it's finished, that is."

"Oh, trying to keep close to Joe, eh?" Rhiannon drawled.

"No, well, that's what I was thinking at first," Sokhar admitted. "But then I thought about the Mechas I'd be helping. What I want to know is how they're going to get there?"

"Joe keeps saying this slightly high falutin' version of that line from the movie _Field of Dreams_ , 'Build it and they will come'. He seems to have something else up his sleeve, but he's not telling me."

"And I suppose you can't pull a Delilah on him and charm the secret out of him."

"He'd get wise to me."

Unbeknown to everyone, even Oto, Joe was at work on another book. He had read Allen Hobby's monograph _How can a Robot Become Human?_ many years before, but now he wrote his own answer to it: _How Can Orga and Mecha Co-exist?_ He worked on it steadily when no one was watching, usually at night, hiding the documents in regions of the hard drives where no one would think to search for it. He created a companion to it, a kind of virtual DNA. Without anyone knowing it, he released it onto the network of Programming, setting the code string to attach itself to the nascent programming of new Mechas. And he set it so that it could transmit from one Mecha to another by even the most superficial contact. Only the most adept programmers would be able to detect it using the most sophisticated scanning equipment, but even then it would looks merely like part of the Mecha's self-preservation programming.

He called it the Schindler meme.

He brought his monograph out into the open about the same time. Lutwyn read the document and encouraged Joe to have it published.

"You have no idea how amazed people are going to be with this," Lutwyn told him. "They'll be talking about it the way they talked about the work Steven Hawking did even after the Gehrig's disease he contracted incapacitated his body."

"But I hope that they will consider the ideas more than they consider the circumstances in which this document was produced," Joe said.

"Actually, the circumstances will help forward your ideas," Lutwyn said.

"How goes the reconstruction?" Joe asked.

"Well, Galloway has all the internal components ready, he just has to get the outside ready. That's gonna take some time since, as you recall, we discontinued SmartDermis. We might have to get it from another company, but I'm trying to have it brought back."

"It does not matter to me whence came the materials, so long as I am reconstructed."

"Aw, bucking company loyalty, eh?"

"It was not so intended," Joe replied, innocently.

At times when he lay alone, when he had voluntarily withdrawn from the things that occupied his attention and which kept him stimulated, from writing or sketching, and simply relaxed the processors and 'rested', an image started to form on his visual matrix.

At first it showed itself dimly and indistinctly: white shapes, silver forms, surrounded by a sea of green mist. But slowly the images took substance and form.

He saw himself crossing water, passing over green fields, into a dense green forest. A white causeway led to a great clearing in the trees, open to the blue sky above. A vast white complex of buildings spread out before him, like white towers, like a fairy tale castle, only made of white concrete and mirrored glass.

 _The Haven_ , he realized. He saved this image and guarded it carefully.

Ree came later the day he saw the Haven fully formed in his "mind".

"How are you doing?" she asked, sitting close to the camera.

"I am very, very well, thank you," he replied. "I have seen the Haven as it might resemble some day."

"Really! Could you…is it possible to show me?"

"Go look at the simulation screen," Joe said.

She got up and went to the monitor.

Images panned across the screen, film-like, as if she approached the Haven herself. She gasped and looked up. She hurried back to the mainframe.

"It's beautiful," she gasped.

"That is but the exterior. I have yet to envision the interior, but doubtlessly it shall be as glorious as the exterior, not just for its tangible substance and its design, but for what it is in whole: a place where Orga and Mecha can learn to live in peace, side by side and hand in hand."

To be continued…

Literary Easter Eggs:

Vanessa the hairdresser—I didn't just use this name for a clever rhyme, I've met at least two girls named Vanessa who really were hairdressers.

Alan Petersen—another name anagram/debauchment, this time of Peter Allen, the announcer for the Metropolitan Opera radio broadcasts.

"My philosophy is charity…"—Compare this to the Dalai Lama's statement, "My religion is compassion". Also, the "blue flower" image is borrowed from the German mystic/Romantic poet known as Novalis, though I think he had something else in mind which it symbolized.

"All day long she hid her tears"—a free paraphrase of some lines from Kurt Weill's song "Trouble Man": "All day long you don't catch me weeping/But God help me when it comes time for sleeping/When it comes time for sleeping here alone."


	13. Phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

After months of my wrestling with this one, trying to get it to work, it is now trying to write itself. After this I have only (GASP!) two more chapters to go. I'm suddenly very reluctant to finish it, but I have made a promise to you, my readers, and I mean to keep it. Slight warning: references to brief non-sexual nudity.

Disclaimer:

See chapter I

Chapter XIII: Phoenix

About this time, Madison came out to Shohola with the express purpose of visiting Joe. Rhiannon had warned her about the state she'd find Joe in.

"Oh, I've had dealings with computer-based AIs before," Madison said as Rhiannon led her into the mainframe bunker under Programming.

"This isn't quite the same," Rhiannon said, leading her to the corner where the mainframe stood. "Joe?"

During the brief pause that ensued, Rhiannon led Madison to the chair before the camera.

"Hello, Ree," his voice replied.

Madison's spine stiffened a little. She glanced at Rhiannon, then looked at the camera.

"And hello to you as well, Madison," the voice added.

"Joe…uh, well, how are you doing…in there?" Madison ventured.

"I am quite well," Joe's voice replied. "In mind, that is…in senses and body…those had been considerably frayed. And how have you been since the concert?"

"I've had my hands full: I'm looking for a tract of land for the Haven so we can begin construction…but we won't break ground until you're back on your feet."

"I would not miss that for all of the universe," Joe replied. But as to choosing a location, I leave that to your discretion, though I propose that we choose a location close to the Canadian border, yet in a centralized location in regards to the rest of the country. And also, that the land be largely wooded."

"That narrows it down," Madison said, taking out her datascriber and jotting down these specification. "The one state that would qualify would be Minnesota. I actually looked at a couple tracts of land there."

"Then perhaps you could reexamine them and pursue the purchase of whichever of the two best fits the profile."

"So, have you thought of a design for the building…buildings yet?" Madison asked.

"I have devised a design for the exterior and its grounds, but I have yet to design the interior," Joe said. "David has been of great help to me in devising a proper model."

"He has?"

"Before all these calamities befell us, he drew a series of drawings that showed his vision of what it could look like. And I must admit that they set my imagination aflame."

"Can I see it?" Madison asked. She caught herself. "Oh, how would I see it?"

"There is a monitor at a right angle to this mainframe," Joe said. "Give me but a minute to bring up the animation I devised."

Madison got up and went to the console at a right angle to the mainframe cabinet. The animation came up on the screen. Her eyes grew brighter and brighter as she watched int. Her hand reached out to the screen, as if she would touch what she saw.

"Joe…that's exquisite," she said, awestruck. "You gotta finish working on it—the insides I mean."

"It occupies much of my attention, when I am not working on the monograph I have devised as a companion to the model," Joe said. "I have only to examine the galley proofs for that, then it shall be ready to share with the world."

"I bet it will have as big an impact as your Three Laws of Organics," Madison said. "You heard what they're calling you in the magazines?"

"I have not read them much lately, even online," Joe admitted.

"One writer called you a combination of Martin Luther King jr., Mahatma Gandhi, and Oskar Schindler."

A low sound like a sob or a chuckle—or a little of both—escaped the speaker. "I am greatly flattered by the last…and like Dr. King and Gandhi, I have suffered for the cause I have chosen to pursue."

"But you're like a phoenix: you'll rise from the ashes one day," Madison said.

"I hope that I shall. But even if my body cannot be restored, I can still have an influence upon humanity, Orga and Mecha alike."

"Yeah, you can have us Orgas do the dirty work for you," Madison teased.

"The machine controlling the submissive humans," Joe said in a humorously menacing growl. They both laughed out loud.

"You're about as threatening as a rose petal," Rhiannon teased.

There was a pause. "I will have to discuss this at length with you, Rhiannon—when it is but the two of us," Joe insinuated.

"Yeah, well, I can find the off switch for your speaker," Rhiannon retorted.

"She knows how to thwart me," Joe said.

"So much for machine intelligence," Madison twitted.

Spring came, the snows melting, yielding to greening grass and trees, flowers blooming in parks and yards, on trees and in flowerbeds.

At Easter, Rhiannon couldn't help noticing a parallel between Christ's resurrection and Joe's pending reconstruction. Of course the two events were vastly different, the one a supernatural miracle capping off the God-Man's sacrificial labor of love for His creatures, the other a technological miracle that would allow a concerned soul to complete a labor of love that would unite the two halves of the race.

She said as much to Joe when she visited him the night of Easter Sunday.

"I am not worthy of such an honor," Joe admitted. "There is no comparing me to the God-Man you love and adore. You know what I once was."

"But it was a former prostitute who anointed His feet before his death, who stood at the foot of his cross as He breathed out His life for her sake and the sake of every other human person who would walk this planet?"

Joe took this thoughtfully. "Indeed He did…Do you think He thought of my kind?"

"I think He did. I believe He died for all who suffer and who wonder why they suffer. Why else would He have called you to follow His path almost literally. You know something He knew. You know what it's like to die for love."

"I do…"

Spring warmed into summer. Galloway special ordered the SmartDermis for Joe's exterior. He promised Rhiannon that the reconstruction would be complete by the end of summer. Unbeknown to her, Joe asked Galloway to program two pieces of body art into the dermis that would cover his shoulder blades: on the right shoulder the Blue Flower, on the left a phoenix, both based on stylized designs of his own devising.

The Phoenix emblem did not come about by accident. Madison was not the only person to see him as such. One day, as he was doodling on a blank document, Joe suddenly became aware of a querulous tapping in a quick pattern. He realized it was Morse code spelling out a message.

 _Who are you._

He electronically tapped out a reply. _My name is Joe Masters._

A long pause, then a reply: _You are he._

What did that mean? _I am who._

 _You are like the bird in mythology._

He was going to ask this creature what or who it was, but he realized it was possibly a tutor or a librarian Mecha in training but it had yet to learn its name and identity.

 _A phoenix._

 _That is the name_ , came the swift reply.

Joe turned this exchange over in his mind, realizing there was an image, a symbol to be treasured.

He realized that he was indeed a phoenix of a new kind, a creature that rose from the ashes of destruction, although his rise had yet to be completed.

The summer passed much too slowly for Rhiannon's liking. Granted, she had her work and looking after the boys to keep her busy. But the house was too quiet without Joe. The three of them went on trips to the Philadelphia Zoo and to the beach at Montclair, New Jersey, but it wasn't the same without Joe along.

About the end of June, one of Joe's designs had its inception. Joe missed the moment when the head of Construction and a few others powered up the saucy little brunette. Joe watched via closed-circuit television, but it simply lacked the wonderful, visceral quality of seeing another of his kind come to life.

But he smiled to himself. She was the first of a new kind of Mecha. Should she ever come to grief, she would know where to go to find shelter.

 _Seek the place where the Blue Flower grows, where you will find the Phoenix._

But he had to finish devising the garden where the Blue Flower could grow, and he had it completed right about the end of July, when Madison announced she had bought a tract of 5,000 acres in the southeast corner of Minnesota.

He saw the interior of the Haven as he had seen the exterior. The front gates led into a great reception atrium, covered with a glass roof with a design of the Blue Flower, a fountain in the center. Trees—artificial and natural together—would stand in planters lining the walls. From this entryway radiated corridors leading to dormitories, a lecture hall, work rooms, apartments for the Orga workers, class rooms for the education of Orga and Mecha alike, so the latter could learn various crafts and trades with which to better their lot and the former could learn to live alongside their metal and fiber brethren. At the center of the complex, the core of the Haven, would be the Temple of Fire, an interfaith chapel, its walls all of colored glass in reds and oranges and yellows, where Orgas and Mechas alike could worship the Maker as they knew Him, or if they did not acknowledge Him, where they could settle their minds and hearts and souls. Alongside it would be a great courtyard garden, the Grove of the Blue Flower, cultivated with blue spruces, bluegrass and with blue flowers in flowerbeds and on shrubs. And high above, overlooking the garden, he placed the apartment he would share with his family.

He walked through the simulation daily, adjusting the details each time. One day he added a gallery of holographic statues of great men and women who had fought with the power of the heart against the force of the fist: Frederick Douglass, Mahatma Gandhi, Maximilian Kolbe, Aristides de Souza-Mendes, Oskar Schindler, Harriet Tubman, Mother Teresa…. Another day he line up the geometrics of the layout: a square tempered with a circle, then a triangle with three circles. His processors screamed with annoyance, until he settled on an octagonal layout. And that, he realized, was the most fitting design, since it replicated the four points of the compass from which the Mechas would flock, seeking shelter.

At the end of the seventh month, like the Creator of the one who create him, Joe looked at his work and saw it was good. Only then did he rest and turn his attention to the next stage of his reconstruction: his impending restoration.

No one had yet detected the Schindler meme, and it was something Joe was not about to reveal to anyone, not even Rhiannon, much as she loved him and much as he, even with his imprinting circuits destroyed, loved her in return. But his "conscience", as he preferred to call his moral logic centers, told him it would be impossible to keep this secret from her for long. She was too intuitive, as a woman and as a lawyer, to overlook it for long.

He decided in the end to reveal it to her only if she ever figured it out.

A week before the end of August, Rhiannon came into Companionates one day to find Galloway and a group of his assistants clustered around something as it moved along the hallway.

As she came out of Legal, she spotted Galloway and his cortege, approaching her from the opposite direction. The crowd parted and she glimpsed what they surrounded.

It looked like a robot body, no skin, no head, just the inner mechanisms and components exposed to view, loping along herky-jerky fashion, attached to a harness of wires which De Vries held up on a long pole as it snaked down into a mobile power source Galloway carried.

Something about the gait was oddly familiar; there was a touch of grace to it she'd seen somewhere…

When she realized what it was, she let out a shriek of surprise and shock.

"Galloway! My God, you'll be the death of me!" she cried, pressing a hand to her chest, trying to still her thudding heart.

Galloway grinned. "Don't yell, Rhiannon: in a month, this thing's gonna be sharing the bed with you."

"I know that. That's why I screamed," she admitted.

Galloway reported to Joe on the progress he had made in the restoration.

"So I have but one more month in which to sojourn in this place?" Joe asked.

"Barring unforeseen glitches, yes. You'll be glad to know," Galloway said.

"I am glad," Joe said. "But another part of me does not wish to leave this place."

"I know this is really Calla's place, but tell me about it."

"I have already discussed it with her at length and she has helped me through this tangle of inhibitions…. I am safe here. No one can harm me here. I am at peace. This is as close to resting in the womb as something like me can come. Why should I emerge and have myself placed in a body I know can be harmed, damaged, even destroyed? Only my longing to return to Rhiannon and our family and to complete my labors for the good of the species encourage me to reemerge into this world."

"Sounds like you got an idea of what might happen. You realize that it's going to be painful, for the simple reason that you're in full possession of your powers of awareness. You know when we upload the programming and the awareness sequences into a Mecha body that the awareness isn't fully integrated with the rest of the higher functions, memory and logic and all that."

"I am aware of that."

"You might have some memory loss or confusion of dates and events when you reenter your body. We may even have to shut you down to reduce the trauma. Ree's gonna be there when we power your body up."

"If that is what you must do to spare my brain the worst, then so be it," Joe said. I trust you. And I trust the One Who made you will guide your hand."

"Well…what if something goes wrong?"

"We shall deal with that if we must. If we need not, why worry ourselves with things that may go wrong until they actually have occurred? Prepare for them, yes, but do not fret over their possibility."

"You're the one who's getting put back into his body and you've got a better outlook on it than I do."

"You can credit that to Calla helping me through this dark time," Joe said.

On the morning of August 30th, Rhiannon called Narsie to her house to mind the boys while she went up to Companionates. She brought along a bundle of clothes for Joe, hoping and praying she'd be able to see him putting them on.

"Are we all set?" Galloway asked De Vries, in the bunker.

"Everything is A-OK," De Vries said, stepping away from the gurney on which the body lay.

Lutwyn attached two cables running from the mainframe to the contacts on the neural cube and the lower memory banks. He looked up to Oto at her console.

"On my count," he said. "Three…two…one…Activate!"

Oto punched in the upload sequence. The console hummed.

Joe sensed similar sensations to what he had felt when his body was destroyed: the sensation of an encroaching void, then the void engulfing him. He had just enough time to wonder if this was how it felt to be an Orga falling asleep…

Rhiannon sat in the inception hall, a white-walled room lit with a large skylight overhead, above a low, padded couch. Madison, Alex, Narsie, and a few other friends and family surrounded her.

The double doors of the hall opened. Galloway, Lutwyn, and the rest of the reconstruction crew entered, surrounding a gurney on which something in black lay, half-covered with a violet satin sheet. They pushed the gurney close to the couch, then closed in around it as they lifted the black-covered object onto the couch.

The crowd parted and she saw what they concealed.

A young male figure lay there on his back, the lower half of his body covered with the sheet, clad in a sleeveless black jumpsuit. His head lay tilted back, his mouth open to the ceiling.

Galloway lifted back the sheet and pulled up the top of the jumpsuit, uncovering an open space in the silicon dermis of the young male's abdomen. Lutwyn handed him a metal box containing two small gray-black cubes Rhiannon realized were batteries. Galloway took them and carefully, almost reverently inserted them into the power supply dock at the base of the young male's ribcage. He pressed a switch on the external power supply plugged into a dock in the back of the figure's neck. The dermis closed itself. With a metal probe, Galloway reached into the figure's mouth and touched the switch in the back of its throat.

The group of technicians and other Companionates personnel stepped back from the couch.

"Joe?" Lutwyn asked. No reply. Rhiannon felt her blood run cold. Was Joe…?

Lutwyn turned to the gathering, looking Rhiannon in the eye. "Would you like to be alone with him?" he asked.

"Yes, please," she said, breathless.

The techs, programmers and other workers dispersed, going out. Galloway and De Vries trundled the gurney out. The others around her followed them, leaving Rhiannon utterly alone. She watched them go out: somehow, she couldn't get her eyes to return to Joe's still form. She'd forgotten how blindingly beautiful he was, so exquisite that she had to look away.

Joe's position had changed, as if Galloway had rearranged him before he went out. He looked more natural: one hand on his chest, the other lying beside him on the cushions, ankles crossed, his body turned slightly on one side.

She got up and made herself walk up to the couch. She knelt on the floor beside it. She took his hand in hers, feeling the warmth there, the growing warmth of those supple fingers. She felt them stir in her grasp, flex in her palm and grip her fingers.

Her gaze ran up his arm to his shoulder, then to his face.

He turned to face her. His eyelids lifted slowly over his eyes, showing his clear green-gold irises. He looked up into her face, tilting his face up slightly. His lips parted slightly, then curved in a gentle smile, showing his even, white teeth.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" she said. "Who you looking at, whiteboy?" she tried to sound tough, but her voice cracked.

"Rhiannon…my wise woman," he said, his voice in its full glory, his accent returned. His hand slid up her arm to her shoulder. With his free hand, he drew her down as she started to lean down to him.

She pressed her lips to his, lightly, feeling the soft warmth there. She pulled him closer and kissed him deeper, harder.

His mouth freed hers slightly, then melded to hers again, fully engaged.

She honestly wanted to take him right then and there, but she knew better. She released her hold on him and drew back.

He sat up, slowly, as if testing each joint in turn. He pushed the sheet back and lowered one foot to the floor, tapping it gently with the plastic sandal sole strapped to his black sock-sheathed foot. He shifted position and lowered the other foot to the floor. He stood up slowly.

He stepped away from the couch, walking cautiously arms slightly away from his sides, as if he didn't quite feel secure on his legs. But she noticed a change come over his movements. They grew more confident. He tracked wider circles around the couch. He passed under the square of light shining from the skylight, the rays of the sun splashing over his form. He paused, apparently sensing the warmth and turned his face up to it, the radiance splashing over his skin, turning his eyes and hair to gold for an instant.

The sun moved. He stepped out of the light, his arms relaxing by his sides. He turned to her and came back to her.

"First steps," she said.

"It will take many such steps," he said. As he got closer to her, something of the old long-stepping swagger started to show in his gait. "But each one brings me closer."

Not to what had been, but to what would be. She held out her hands to him. He took them, clasping them, pressing them. They let each others hands go, lingeringly.

She turned and took from under her chair the bundle of clothing she'd brought along. "I brought something for you to put on, get you out of that atrocious stuff they've slung on you."

He glanced down at himself. "I have often wondered why useful garments must always be so unsightly." She handed the package to him. He took it. "Thank heavens," he said, some of the adopted Orga mannerisms coming back.

He set the package on the couch and undid the twine that held it shut, then opened the brown paper. Inside lay a gray silk shirt, a pair of black dress slacks, a pair of button shoes he'd bought before his sufferings began but had never worn, and his old simuleather jacket from the time long ago, when he had first been made new. He gave her a sidelong smile at this.

He took in both hands the front hem of the jersey that covered his torso and drew it up over his head. Nothing structurally different there, except that it had been so long since she had seen him this way that she stifled a gasp. He smiled at this, one part amused, one part delighted, one part his usual gentle vanity. They had restored its form to its Greek Apollo splendor, his torso molded to look lightly muscled, that much remained the same. But when he turned around, she noticed the emblems of the Haven etched into his dermis: the Blue Flower and the Phoenix.

He removed the sandal soles on his feet, then drew off the baggy, elastic waist pants that covered him and stepped into the pair she had brought along. She'd never been able to quite break him of the habit of not wearing underwear, but it was a minor concern. He drew on his shirt, buttoning it up and tucking it into the waist of his pants. He slipped on his shoes, raising one foot, then the other, stooping gracefully to fasten them.

Lastly, he drew on his jacket, straightening the lapels, smoothing down the sleeves, and shaking out the skirts with his customary aplomb. He struck a pose, one foot behind the other, skirts of his jacket pushed back, thumbs hooked into his pockets.

"Do you see anything you like, Madame?" he asked, cocking one eye at her.

"I saw a _lot_ that I liked, sweetcheeks," she said, slipping her arm about his waist. "A lot that I'd love to take home."

He slid his arm through hers. "Yes…I would love that…home…to go home to our family."

She slid her arm across his back, up to his shoulder and led him out, down the hallway, heading for the front atrium.

It seemed every Companionates employee, from the directors to the maintenance Mechas, stood lining the corridors, the Orgas cheering and applauding, the Mechas regarding him in something like awe. Many people came forward to shake Joe's hand. He refused no greeting, particularly from the Mechas.

They went straight home, Joe watching the scenery they passed through, re-accustoming himself to it, to his hometown. Rhiannon pointed out the landmarks: the gallery where he had exhibited his paintings, the library, the street the Zipeses lived on.

When they got home, when they got in the door, David ran down the stairs to meet them, bear-hugging Joe about the waist.

"Daddy!" he cried.

Joe reached down and swept the little one up onto his arm. "David, my little one," Joe crooned, pressing the little one's face into his shoulder.

"You came back," David said, pulling away slightly. "I knew you would. I know Uncle Galloway could help make you better."

"Indeed he did," Joe said, a tear showing at the corner of his eye.

Basteth ran up to Joe, letting out her trilling meow, weaving around his ankles. He stooped and ran her tail through the fingertips of one hand.

Someone played a piano version of "I Only Have Eyes for You". Joe's ears pricked up at that. Still carrying David on his arm, he stepped into the living room.

Alex sat at the piano, playing, his shoulders hunched a little as if to say, "You don't see me plying this." Joe set David down on his feet, his hand on his son's head.

When Alex played the last notes, he looked up. "Thought you'd like that," he said. "Welcome home, Dad."

Joe put his arm about Alex. "Thank you." Alex looked away, clearly embarrassed.

Joe spent that day reacquainting himself with the house and the yard. That evening, Rhiannon sat with him showing him their 2-D photo albums and her tri-D vids: their wedding pictures, her candid shots, the pictures of David and Alex early on.

They sat together that night, just talking, holding hands, remembering. Rhiannon grew tired and nestled her head against his shoulder. She dozed off at length. He lifted her carefully and carried her upstairs to their room.

He laid her on the bed and drew the covers over her. He spent the rest of that night sitting in the chair by the window, watching her as she slept. Much as he wanted to, Joe somehow realized it was not yet the right time to keep her company in bed.

But well past sunrise, when Rhiannon started to stir and awaken, Joe approached the foot of the bed and sat there. She turned over and opened her eyes, looking up at him.

"Good morning," she said, smiling.

"Good morning, Rhiannon…and it is a good morning," Joe said.

"I don't remember coming up here…" she caught him smiling sweetly at her. "You brought me up here."

"It was the least I could do for you," he said.

She looked at his pillow, which she had put there earlier the day before, in case he wanted to lie there. It hadn't been dented, much less slept on. "You didn't spend the whole night there, did you?"

"In all honesty, I spent the night sitting in the chair by the window," he admitted.

"Are you okay—I'm sorry," she dropped her gaze, a little ashamed at the question.

"I need only to readjust to this life I once knew and its routines," he said.

While Rhiannon took a bath, Joe reacquainted himself with the contents of his half of the closet. He ran his hand over the fabrics, reading the labels.

"Hey Joe, whaddya know," he said in a low voice. "You're quite a smart dresser."

He settled on a basic black turtleneck jersey and khakis, classic and simple.

Ree took that day off so the four of them could spend some time together, going for long walks around town and in the park.

That night, Joe tucked David into bed, reacquainting himself with this little ritual.

"Could you tell me a story, Daddy?" David begged.

"I have thought of a new one for you," he said. And he told David of a dark-skinned princess and her friend the phoenix, of the water sprite who hated their love, of the princess's journey over seven mountains of glass to find the wizard who could heal the phoenix, and their quest for the blue flower whose light could set the feathers of the phoenix on fire once more.

"Daddy…are you the phoenix?" David asked.

"What makes you ask that?" Joe asked, astutely.

"Because…you came back, like the phoenix did."

"A few people have called me the Phoenix."

"And that's why you thought up the story?"

"Yes, for you, to help you understand what happened to me."

"I like it," David said. "But I like having you back even more."

"And I'm glad to be back with you and Alex and Mommy," Joe said. He leaned down and kissed his son's forehead, then got up and went out.

That night, Joe sat on the foot of the bed, while Ree slept, watching her, counting her breaths. He knew he belonged to Ree, but he could not quite sense it fully. He felt her love for him, but he could not fully reciprocate it. He knew it was probably just a simple case of needing to burn in his new circuitry, and he knew Rhiannon would have to re-imprint him.

The next day, Joe went back to Companionates to reacquaint himself with Design.

His cubicle had been left intact, as he had left it. They'd kept it dusted and someone had even put a fresh flower in the bud vase.

He ran his hand over the spines of the books on the shelf above the desktop, remembering them, recalling his college studies. He opened the drawers of the desk, examining the contents.

He reacquainted himself especially with the rest of the design crew: Manoj, his neighbor in the next cubicle, the junior draftsmen, the project chiefs, Astarte the office manager and "Sokhar the annoying", who didn't stare at him the way she usually did.

A week after Joe's second inception, in a very simple ceremony attended by just a handful of their closest friends, Joe and Rhiannon renewed their marriage vows

That evening, with the boys farmed out to the Zipeses' for the night, Rhiannon re-imprinted Joe in the sanctum of their room. She knew he'd been awaiting this moment with delighted impatience, so she didn't keep him in suspense any longer. It had been so long since she felt his touch, his hands tracing the contours of her body, that it felt almost like the first time.

"So…" he said afterwards, looking into her eyes. "You have had me in two vastly different levels of experience."

"Name them," she said.

He smiled mischievously. "You know what I mean by this."

"I know…I just want to hear it from you."

"In that case, you had me first as a man of experience, but now you have had me as a virgin in body," he said.

"My turn to deflower you," she said. She could say that Joe had deflowered her: her ex-fiancé might have violated her, but he hadn't penetrated her heart. He hadn't been admitted to that walled garden, had not drunk from the waters of the sealed fountain there, not as Joe had. "That doesn't sound right…why do they use the word 'deflowering' for women, but it doesn't sound right if you use it for a man?"

He turned his gaze slightly to the side, looking down at the mattress beside her. After a moment, his eyes rose and he turned his face back to hers.

"Perhaps it is because a woman's sexual nature is much more delicate, like a flower, and because the man's embrace causes her to become fruitful, as the flowers give way to the fruit."

"Well…but you can't get me pregnant," she said.

"No," he admitted, tracing slow circles on her flesh with one fingertip. "The violence of an Orga man lacking love in his heart deprived you of the chance to become a mother in the flesh. But through me, you will become the mother of a great family of Orgas and Mechas. You are the mother of my sons, and you shall be the mother of the Haven."

To be continued…

Literary Easter Eggs:

The rebirth sequence—This scene, which I drafted first, was inspired directly by the exquisite music from the "A.I." movie trailer. And yes, I based Joe's pose as he pauses under the skylight on the Cybertronics statue.

The walled garden, et al—derived from the Song of Songs.


	14. Construction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

I never thought I'd see the day when this one would be in the home stretch, but this, like the _Minority Report_ crossover I'm working on, is trying to steam roller its way to the end, and I am utterly reluctant to be so close to finishing it. But, here is the next to the last chapter. Enjoy!

Disclaimer:

See chapter I

Chapter XIV: Construction

When Joe returned to work at Companionates, he found he had a much harder time applying himself to his work than he had expected. He attributed this to his new circuitry still needing to be burnt in, but even after three weeks, he still could not apply his mind to his work. His thoughts kept straying to the Haven.

"It is as if the skill I once had as a designer has fled me, or the data from my training in design has become unavailable," Joe admitted to Calla, during a session he scheduled with her one afternoon.

"Does it bother you? Do you sense a malfunction?"

"No, I have had a scan to determine if that is what it could be. But there is no mechanical cause for this. I believe the problem is my own inhibition."

"If you weren't designing Mechas, what would you do?" she asked him.

He dropped his gaze for a few seconds, then lifted his eyes to her. "That is not so simple a question to answer as I first thought. Of late, I had thought it is a waste of time and resources to build more Mechas when we cannot care well for the ones which exist."

"That's a perfectly legitimate feeling to have. But what would you do with it? How would you act on it?"

"I have considered…giving up design and pursuing studies in robo-psychology."

"Have you talked this over with Rhiannon?"

"I have actually been afraid to broach to subject to her."

"You know she won't bite, even if she disagrees with you."

"I know that she will not…but it will be something of a strain upon her. I shall have to go back to college, which will require her to be the provider for our family."

"Even still, there's no one really better equipped to be a robo-psychologist: you're a Mecha yourself and you've survived so many sufferings."

He chuckled thinly, as if relishing a private joke.

"What?" Calla asked.

"I believe I recall reading an article about a woman who once had worked as a prostitute, but who later went on to become a psychologist," he said. "Thus the prospect of my entering this field is not so far fetched."

"There you go. You have the wherewithal: you're keyed to sensing the sufferings of another, to respond to it and to comforting them."

"Indeed," Joe agreed.

Later, that evening, as Joe helped Rhiannon with the laundry, he broached the news to her that he was seriously considering changing fields.

"Calla needs to remain here in the field, but the Haven shall need its own resident robo-psychologist," he concluded. "And so, with your permission, might I pursue continuing my education?"

"Joe," she said, straightening up from loading wet clothes into the drier. "You know you don't have to clear it with me. Whatever you do to follow your dream, I'll stand by you on it."

"Perhaps we can persuade Alex to help you around the house more. David is a willing helper, but Alex needs to do his share as well."

"I could use that, but let me handle Alex. If you asked him, he'd just get flouncy about it."

The next day, Joe gave his notice that he would be leaving Companionates in two weeks. The Design crew was unanimously dismayed to hear this.

"I'm sure you're doing the right thing, Joe," Astarte said as she helped him clean out his cubicle the day he left. "But I just wantcha to know you've been one of the best workers we ever had here."

Joe smiled at this, but his eyes betrayed a sad, distant look. "I have always done my best to make myself amiable to my co-workers."

"I know you have, and that's why we're all sorry to see you go…but I used to say to Serin that you were destined for great things," she said. He turned his eyes away to hide the tears that showed on his lashes. "Aw, don't listen to me: I'll break your resolve."

Joe patted Astarte's broad shoulder. "No, rest assured that your comments will not weaken my resolve," he said. "Rather they bring me hope."

A week later, Joe enrolled in the Sagawan Community College in the next town, specializing in Robo-Psychology and "The Silicon Mind: Its Care and Maintenance." As he had, years before in design, he surprised his instructors and professors by completing in just a year and a half the same amount of work that would take an Orga three years to complete. And, at the same time, he was also learning how to drive; Galloway had adjusted Joe's distance vision, bringing it from a slightly spotty 25/20 to perfect 20/20.

As Joe expected, Alex hemmed and hawed over having to take on more work around the house, but David did his part as well, which oddly enough motivated Alex to do more around the house. It was as if Alex was embarrassed that this little kid with a Teddy trundling after him (Eddie, a new model with silvery gray fur) was doing more to help out.

When he wasn't working on his assignments—including his doctorate thesis on the effects and ramifications of imprinting, and whether or not under certain conditions it could be reversed—Joe was at work with Madison, planning the construction in Minnesota. Madison and her lawyers had worked out all the kinks getting all the proper building permits. Anthony Casvar, David's first father, knew an architectural firm which could render Joe's designs into the proper schematics and blueprints: Roychmann and Associates Design. The head of the firm, Alfred Roychmann, was highly impressed with the simulation which Joe had devised.

"You sure you don't want to come and work for us?" Roychmann offered after he had viewed a holoprojection of the simulation. "We could use an extra mind and an extra pair of hands around here."

"I have chosen to train in another field, outside of design," Joe admitted, astutely.

The permit process got stalled briefly, then winter set in, postponing the ground-breaking until the spring thaw. But at length the winter snows gave way and the work commenced. The crew cleared the middle of the lot, leaving most of the plot forested. After the momentous day when Joe, Madison, and Neruda Chang, the head of the CRF, dug out the first shovelfulls of soil from the plot, the work commenced in earnest. Construction crews worked round the clock: Orgas during the day, Mechas at night, so that the lot was never vacant, which helped deter any would-be attacks on the structure. Even still, the CRF had a few threatening letters show up in the mail, but nothing worse happened. They even relocated one of their offices to the small town of Plancard, near the building site, so that they could assist any derelict or abandoned Mechas who might turn up.

The release of the film version of Joe's memoirs had been delayed slightly since the director had decided to add a few new scenes covering recent incidents and laying more stress on the idea of the Haven. Joe took this in stride: it would be good PR for the Haven itself. Word of mouth: "Did you hear about that sanctuary they're building for abused Mechas?" The "Schindler meme" Joe had created to heighten a Mecha's sense of self-preservation was not sufficient alone to get them to seek the Haven.

Miss Chang encouraged and helped Joe start a public awareness ad campaign targeted at Mechas, with the basic message, "Being a Mecha shouldn't have to hurt".

Rhiannon never let on to Joe, but she found his workload a bit hard to accept at first. He'd taken on so much, she hoped he hadn't taken on more than he could handle, but he had that Mecha stamina to back him up. Between writing papers and following the progress on the construction and working on the ad campaign, he had very little time to just be alone with her. This sacrifice wasn't easy to make at first, but she made his desires hers as well. She could have distracted Joe from his work if she had wanted to: she had it in her. There were times, late at night, when she woke to find his pillow beside hers empty, and she looked up, over the foot of the bed to see him silhouetted against the window, sitting on the bench cross-legged, his notebook open on his lap as he typed a paper or read an e-text, his graceful face and figure softly lit with the faint light from the display. She so wanted to get up then, creep up behind him, and slip her hands around his waist or run her fingers through his hair and get him to come back to bed. But she restrained herself: he had his work to do, this labor of love inspired by a lifetime of troubles and the touch of a small boy who was not a boy of flesh and blood.

In the first year of work, the construction crew completed most of the outer shell of the complex that would comprise the Haven before the snow fell, blanketing the site, making further work difficult. But as soon as the spring returned, they completed the rest of the structure and started the work of finishing the interior, which they completed by the end of August. But by now, the Haven was the topic of everyone's conversation, whether people agreed with the project or not. The detractors viewed it as a ploy to distract people from "more pressing concerns"; the more insidious critics tried to insinuate that this Haven was another plot on the part of the Mecha designers, that this Masters, aka. "the Phoenix" was really constructing it as a training ground for a Mecha army for a further assault on Orgakind. But these fortunately formed a very small minority. Thanks to the film and his ads, most people thought of the Haven as Joe had hoped they would: as a place where Mechas could find refuge from the less charitable of Orgakind, and where Orgas and Mechas could learn to live in harmony.

They already had quite a few applications for positions in the Haven: repair technicians, security, teachers, even a few farmers who would cultivate the food crops for the Orgas. It didn't surprise Joe when Galloway applied to work in the repair crew.

The Haven was designed as a self-sustained community which would supply as much of its own necessities as was possible, to avoid much contact with the outside world, not out of a sense of shame or disdain, but out of a sense of self-sufficiency. Of course there were some things they would have to obtain from the outside world: Mecha parts, medicines for the Orgas and whatever food which couldn't be raised in the rooftop gardens. Joe thought of the 13th century Benedictine abbeys of Europe helping the less fortunate of society, or the 18th century Jesuit missons in the then New World, offering refuge for the indigenous people so they might escape the slave traders who sought to exploit them, when he laid out the basic plan for the Haven.

Of course there were some saw Joe as a cult leader, but in several short articles he wrote and published, he denied all claims to this, saying that he had no specific religious affiliation, save that he believed in a Higher Power who only asked humanity to love each other as they were loved. His purpose was not to gain fame for himself, but only to help the helpless. If he was heard about and talked about, it was not because he sought attention for himself; rather, his media presence served as a vehicle for the task he had chosen.

During the last months of construction, as the crews finished the interior of the Haven, dozens of Mechas started to show up at the offices of the CRF across the country, seeking shelter.

When the structure was complete, Madison, Joe, Rhiannon and a few of the CRF chiefs toured the Haven. Rhiannon found her senses utterly dazzled by the sight. It looked so much like a full size version of the simulation Joe had devised that she almost feared it was only a hologram. But she knew it had to be real. It had been such an elusive dream for so long that part of her couldn't believe it was truly a real structure. Looking at Joe, she knew he felt something similar. Would these gleaming white walls and towers simply dissolve into so much light? Was that real sunlight shining through the skylights overhead and the glass block panels in the walls? Was that soothing, trickling sound in the Garden of the Blue Flower really water falling into the basin of a fountain?

She started crying for joy when he led her into the Temple of Fire. The light streaming through the stained glass made it seem as if they had walked through a wall of frozen flames. Electric and wax candles, as yet unlit, stood in tiered banks along the base of the walls.

Joe slipped his arm about Rhiannon's shoulders, holding her. She covered his hand with hers.

"This is beautiful," she managed, her voice choked with tears. "This is so beautiful…"

"It was meant to celebrate the beauty of faith," he said

They went home to make their own final preparations for their next move. Rhiannon put the house up for sale, pricing it for a quick sale via the 'Net. Galloway had already moved out of his place and was living in their basement, pending the move.

They had the furniture they would need moved to Minnesota. The house sold quickly, so they moved into a hotel room for their last couple days in Shohola.

The last morning, the day of their departure, as the Masterses checked out of the hotel and set out for the airport in Philadelphia, they discovered the Zipeses waiting for them outside the hotel.

"And what better people could we have to see us off as we embark on our journey," Joe said.

"We're not here to say goodbye," Lutwyn said, reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out a folder of airline tickets. "We're here to say hello."

Joe processed this for a second. "Then you are…you are accompanying us?"

"Yes, we are," Narsie said.

"It's been almost twelve years since I took up the directorship at Companionates after my dad passed. Time for a change. We'll do what we can to help, if you'll just let us come along."

"I shall be in need of assistance as I assume the role of directing the Haven," Joe said.

"Uh, oh, maybe this wasn't such a good idea," Rhiannon twitted.

"Yeah, one directorship to another," Lutwyn groaned, betraying a smile.

"No, you shall serve in a purely advisory capacity," Joe promised. "You will not have to shoulder that burden any longer."

Plancard, Minnesota… The town's one hotel was jammed with Orgas come to work in the Haven and they'd spilled out over into the neighboring homes: some of the townsfolk offered to house them. Madison had seen to it that the Mechas were housed in the gym of the high school, under discrete surveillance; she'd sold her house and donated the proceeds to defray the cost of the construction. She'd even opted to stay amongst the Mechas in their temporary quarters.

"They're all asking for you," she told Joe as she led him into the gym.

The room was almost solid with Mechas of all kinds: spidery service droids, the more-Orga-like companion models: secretaries, servants and lover models—male and female, Joe sensed a slight slowing in his system when he spotted a female who looked just like Jane. Some lacked arms and parts of their faces, others lacked their limbs; some were almost reduced to metal skeletons. They quickly became aware of them: their eyes turned toward the, recognition flickering in them.

He moved in among them, touching hands outstretched, faces turned up to his, speaking a few words to each.

 _Are you he? Are you the Phoenix?_

 _They call me that._

Madison watched from the doorway. A girl child Mecha had taken the skirt of Joe's coat; he stooped down to take her onto his arm. A dog simulacrum, a German shepherd, peered up at him from under a bench, then crept out to lick his hand.

Some time later, Joe came away, though he could have stayed longer. "They are so like a flock of sheep without a keeper," he said to Madison as they walked out into the late afternoon.

"Not quite: you're their keeper now, or at least you will be in a few hours," she said.

He bowed his head. Why all of a sudden does this task loom so large?" he asked. "Even when the structure was being planed and constructed, it did not seem so enormous, so insurmountable?"

"Reality's setting in. I felt something like that when I took up my husband's business after passed away. It's like it suddenly hits you: 'Just WHAT am I getting myself into?'" she said. Seeing the tense concern on his face, she patted his head. "It'll be all right: we're all here for you."

Joe returned to Rhiannon and the boys in the hotel room. David ran to meet him as he let himself in. Joe reached down and touched his son's head tenderly, caressing it, marveling at his bright little one and how well he had come along since they had first found him.

Rhiannon, sitting on the bed, set her book aside and got up to hug them both.

"How are they?" she asked.

"They are awaiting their new refuge. Some are in varying states of repair—or perhaps disrepair is the more appropriate word. But they know what they need and they know where they must go to find it," Joe said.

Later that evening, he could barely settle down for the night. Just as his distance vision had been improved, he also could voluntarily put his lower functions on standby, allowing him to "sleep" in a sense. His sensory faculties remained fully functional as a survival mechanism and his mind remained active, but for the moment, he could not settle down.

While Rhiannon slept, he sat up on the foot of the bed, his gaze turned to the window, toward the starry sky. No moon showed there, but he recalled a night when he had journeyed toward the moon with a child who took his hand and so saved his brain.

Rouge City and the Haven…two vastly different enclaves, but both centered on Mechas: the one which exploited them. The other which protected them. The new legislation had done much to better the lot of Mechas, including the class he had once belonged to, which were allowed a higher portion of the fees they received—he wished that this usage for his kind could be eliminated, but he did not foresee this happening for a long while yet. It hadn't surprised him that a little more than a third of the Mechas awaiting to enter the Haven were lover-models. They were the most demoralized. He knew that for himself, from that harsh schoolmistress known as Experience.

"What are you doing?" Alex's voice asked from the other bed.

"I could hardly rest from anticipation," Joe said, keeping his voice low.

"You know you don't sleep."

"In a sense I can."

"I forgot, they rebuilt you that way…. What's it like?"

"What is what like?"

"What is it like: dying?"

"It is the most painful thing one can know, and I have never died in the fullest sense. The only way you can know what it's like is if you have been through it."

Alex was silent for a long time, perhaps pondering this.

"How many are there ready to join, Mechas I mean?" he asked at length.

"There are perhaps a little over a hundred."

"That few? I figured there'd be a thousand with all the hype you've made about this."

"There will be more, many more, and we have provide enough space for thousands."

"I hope it all works. I don't want it blowing up in your face."

"It shall not, please heaven. From small acorns come great oak trees."

The bed creaked as Alex settled down.

"Dad?" he asked.

"Yes, Alex?"

"I know I don't talk like this much, but…I can't help but thinking something."

"Tell it to me, but only if you're ready to."

"Dad…you're a great man."

"Thank you," Joe said, his verbal communicator suddenly scrabbling over words.

The bed creaked louder as Alex rummaged under the covers, probably embarrassed to admit he was embarrassed.

Joe took this as a cue that he should settle down as well. Rhiannon might wonder what was bothering his processors. But even after he crawled under the covers again, he still could not settle his lower functions.

The late summer night slowly deepened, the stars brightening in the sky. Then the sky lightened, the stars dimming as the sun rose. Birds chirped in the trees nearby.

Rhiannon stirred next to him and turned to him. "You didn't rest, did you?" she teased.

"I could not," he admitted.

"Excited?"

"Very much so. Not since my second inception have I felt such animation."

"What's your excuse the rest of the time?" she teased. She sat up and hugged him. "C'mon, time to go change the world."

Basteth the cat jumped up onto the bed, trilling and chirping and butting them both with her head.

"Our little fur-clad goddess agrees," Joe said, pushing back the covers.

The Orga workers gathered in the town square about nine that morning. From there it was just a short walk of about three-quarters of a mile to the Haven. Most of them had been given an orientation the night before, but today they got their marching orders from the Directors and they would settle in the compound itself.

After several minutes, they started to get a little concerned. "Well, where are they?" someone asked.

And then someone on the fringe of the crowd let out a shout. "Here they come!"

Almost as one, the crowd of flesh and blood humans turned in the direction of the shout.

There approached from the east, almost as if they had walked out of the sun, a column of figures, most of them gleaming a little too brilliantly in the morning light. The sturdier figures carried in their arms or on their backs the less preserved of their numbers. At the head of the crowd walked a small entourage: a well-built woman with soft gray hair, a tall, striking woman, younger and dark-skinned and a light-brown haired man about the same age as the dark woman. Ahead of them all strode a slender young man in gleaming black, the morning sun glinting oddly gold and auburn off his black hair, on his arm he carried what looked like an eleven year old boy.

The column halted opposite the crowd of Orgas. The young man in the lead, Masters, the chief director, better known as "the Phoenix" came forward and looked them over. A smile crossed his calm face.

"Come, brothers: let's start the work that's brought us together," he said.

The two groups mingled, then turned onto the road that led to the Haven, "The Phoenix" walking at the head of the column.

The road took them past the town limits, over a bridge that spanned a small river, across a vast field that gave way to a lush forest of pines and oaks, clean smelling in the morning dew. The road sloped up slightly to a tableland in the midst of the woods, which gave way to an open place. Even before the trees opened, they could see through the branches the white and silver towers of the structure.

And then it lay spread out before them, brilliant in the morning light as if it had been carved out of a single block of white marble.

A rustle arose from the crowd, from the Orgas, even from the Mechas, questions, exclamations, even words of appreciation.

The road led up to an open arched gateway. They approached it over a white stone causeway that sloped slightly, and passed through the gates, over the threshold, and into the entryway.

A soft-colored light, blue flecked with red, orange and purple fell over them form above. In the center of the atrium stood a fountain which bubbled softly, just rustling the cathedral-like stillness which hovered over them.

The crowd flowed around the entryway, taking in the sights and sounds of the great hall.

Joe set David on his feet, Rhiannon taking the little one's hand as Joe stepped to the middle of the hall. He scanned the crowd, which turned to him, expecting something.

"My brothers and sister—and I call you such because we are more than the members of a mere organization. We are members of a family, a community with one goal, that of love, of seeking the greater good for our fellow man, whether of flesh or of fiber. The structure in which you now stand was built in a spirit of love, as a sanctuary where love can blossom and spread its scent through a world grown noxious with hatred.

"Many of you have suffered terribly at the hands of your former masters. But here there are no masters, no servants. We shall all work together as equals working toward one goal: that of bettering ourselves by helping each other and so be able to help the world heal. It is a place where wounds can be bound up, damage made whole, fear turned to trust so that we might go out and help others help themselves. It is a refuge, and yet it is also a starting point.

"Orga have come to fear Mecha for many reasons. One reason is that they fear we Mechas shall overtake them through power. One of the reasons behind creating the Haven was to counteract this fear through its positive counterpart: yes, Mechas shall overtake Orgas, not by power, but by compassion. This is a place founded on compassion. Let us nurture it like a flower so that someday brotherhood may arise once again from the ashes."

No applause rose from the crowd. To do so would have been like applauding a prayer. But a sigh of assent rose from the crowd.

Joe stepped away from the center of the hall to rejoin his family. Madison clasped his shoulder with one hand. "You were great, boy," she said, grinning, her eyes trying not to overflow. He smiled back.

"I did what I could, I said what needed to be said," he replied.

"And you did great," Rhiannon said, hugging him.

The crowd slowly dispersed, the Orgas leading the slightly 'bewildered" Mechas into the hallways and corridors.

"Hey, can we get over the ceremonial gack and just move in?" Alex said. "Preferably before my piano gets put in storage under a bunch of empty suitcases?"

"And I thought that Lutwyn was the one who kept me grounded in reality," Joe said, as he lead his family up to their new home.

Concluded in the next chapter…


	15. Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

The last chapter... My heart broke while I wrote this one. I may return to this series some time in the future, but it's hard to say right now since I'm so busted up over finishing this one. Time will tell.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter One

Chapter XV: Sanctuary

Joe's days were full now, counseling troubled Mechas, conferring with other directors, or just moving among "the family" of the Haven.

Each day at least a handful of Mechas came through the ever-open gates. Some were brought in by concerned relatives of a deceased or abused owner or imprinter. Others came voluntarily. Once in a while, Social Services or the A..M would tip them off about an abused Mecha (too frequently a child) and asked Joe to join them in removing the child from an abusive home.

But they did not hold the Mechas indefinitely unless it seemed the Mecha in question was too damaged or disturbed to return to life outside the Haven. Many simply needed to be relocated with better employers. They had some irate owners show up looking for "their property", but Joe would not allow them to even see the Mechas they had injured. Rhiannon helped more than a few Mechas obtain restraining orders against abusive former owners and file for National ID cards. Joe saw to it that these same Mechas were also reoptimized for self-defense.

They saw quite a few animal Mechas come in: dogs, cats, snakes, even birds, especially parrots, which didn't fly too well, but in every other respect they resembled their fleshy counterparts: noisy. They had one pair of lovebirds roaming the garden at one point, squeaking so loudly their peeps made themselves heard all over the place. Alex went after them and caught them, sticking them into his shirt pockets where they squealed even worse until Joe fished them out and found their off switches.

"Is there any way you can de-squeak them?" Rhiannon asked.

"You will have to ask Galloway," Joe said.

Once in a while, not very often but more frequent than Joe would rather see, someone would bring in the body of an all but mangled Mecha, some marginally functioning, others far beyond repair. The repair crews would quietly send the body for recycling, but Joe took every precaution of researching the Mecha's name, model and serial number, recording them in a ledger he entitled the Book of Remembrance, which he kept in a tiny chapel behind the Temple of Fire.

At other times, they received a profoundly disturbed Mecha with programming so corrupted that the repair crews had to wipe the neural cube completely. This brought a pang of empathy to Joe; he'd come so close to this fate himself.

A lot of lover Mechas came to them, some were private companion models who had suffered too long at the hands of a cruel or demanding master, but most were street prostitutes as Joe had been. The females of this class tended to grow very attracted to Joe, often to the point of turning "lovelorn", or they took to following him about as he made his rounds. Joe found this every bit as annoying as Rhiannon found it.

"Maybe you should find a female robo-psychologist to take care of the female Mechas," Rhiannon suggested one morning as she and David cleared her breakfast dishes.

"Perhaps this would be the best course of action," Joe said, examining his schedule for the morning and ruefully noting he had two female patients that morning.

"You want me to contact Calla?" she asked.

Joe wagged his head. "I thought it would be best if she remained in the field outside."

"You know she'd say yes almost as quick as you could get the words out of your mouth."

"I know that she is only too willing to help us."

"And we need her help. I don't want you to keep getting hit on."

He smiled reassuringly as he put his pocket scriber back into his inner pocket. "You know their charms cannot lead me away from you."

"I know. But I don't want them to keep tempting you. I know it bugs you."

One female lover-model in particular, a small blonde with brown eyes, who went by the name Sabrina, was especially persistent. Joe spotted her watching him from strategic places in corridors and along walkways throughout the complex. The ragged leopard print halter top and hot pants she'd worn when she'd first shown up one rainy night had been replaced with a sensible gray blouse and black slacks, but she still looked exquisite in them. Joe tacitly avoided her and ignored her when he couldn't, but that only made her more persistent.

"Too bad Alex isn't interested in girls his own age; you could introduce him to Sabrina and see what happens," Lutwyn suggested as he and Joe were in the library one afternoon.

"I had similar thoughts," Joe said, leafing through a bound volume on obsessive-compulsive disorder. "But she has no interest in him either."

"Like your song goes, she only has eyes for you," Lutwyn said, teasingly deadpan.

That very night, as Rhiannon was washing up in the bathroom off their bedroom, she heard an awful scream come from the other room. She threw on her bathrobe and ran out to find Joe, shoes off and shirt open, apparently startled in the middle of changing, had scrambled up on top of a high dresser in an effort to get away from a very aggressive Sabrina.

"Hey, come down from there, Joe," Sabrina purred, rubbing herself against the dresser. "I just wanted to return the favor."

"But this is NOT the way to do so," Joe countered, not even looking at her.

"Sabrina, get out of here!" Rhiannon ordered.

Sabrina turned to Rhiannon, looking up at her with a catty, almost patronizing little smile. "Can't you share him with me, Rhiannon? He's a lover-model after all."

"No. He's also my husband. Now get out!"

"If you do not get out of here, we will have to call security. Your stay in the Haven may be cut short," Joe added, icy-voiced.

"What-ever," Sabrina said, utterly miffed, nose in the air. She went out with a provocative waggle of her fanny. Rhiannon followed her out to make sure she really left. She locked the hall door of the apartment behind the intruder, something they usually didn't have to do.

"Mommy, what was that shout about?" David said, meeting Rhiannon in the apartment hallway as she went back to her room.

"Oh, we just had an unwelcome guest in our room and it startled Daddy," she said. "It won't happen again." She brought him back to his room, hoping he wouldn't ask what sort of intruder it was. He didn't.

"Now what was all that about?" Alex demanded, as she passed by his room.

"You know Sabrina, that new girl?"

"The ugly little one who's got the hots for Dad?"

"She broke into our room."

"Uh oh! Was she putting her little paws where they don't belong?"

"It hadn't got to that, but it would have if your father hadn't climbed up on a dresser out of her reach."

"That must have been funny to see."

By the time Rhiannon got back, Joe had climbed down from the dresser, but his whole being still bore a look of unease, even suspicion.

"She's gone, and I made sure the door was locked so she can't get back in," Rhiannon said.

"Perhaps it is time I asked Call to join us," Joe said, soberly. Then with a smile, "I could not have had a better sign to alert me to this necessity."

"So what exactly happened before I heard you yell?" Rhiannon asked.

"I was sitting on the bed, in the process of undressing, when I heard footsteps behind me. At first they sounded like yours, but I realized they were different steps. I looked over my shoulder in time to see her approach the bed. She said to me, 'Let me help you with that,' as she tried to crawl across the bed toward me. I replied to this with the incoherent yawp you heard." A sunset hue passed over his cheeks. "I tried to elude her, but the only place I could find safety was high atop that dresser.

"You poor thing," she said, hugging him comfortingly.

First thing the next morning, Joe sent off a message to Calla.

From: the_phoenix

To: robo_doc

Subject: A very difficult patient and an offer

Dear Calla

I have an especially challenging patient who, perhaps, you might be able to help me treat. About a month ago, there came to us a small female lover-model, a Cybertronics SN-21429, answering to the name Sabrina (or "Hey, Sabrina, I ain't seen yah"). She had formed a highly improper attachment to me, following me about, trying to engage my amorous attentions. She even broke into our bedroom last night and tried to engage me in a passionate encounter (you will be glad to know I rebuffed her).

I know we have discussed this before but would you consider relocating her to assist me? Your needs and accommodations will be well provided here. Hope to hear from you soon regarding this matter.

I remain yours,

Joe M.

Calla called him that very evening.

"That must have been awful, having that little pest all over you," she said.

"It was indeed. It set all the pursuit centers in my being into high gear, but my volition centers went into high gear in the opposite direction."

"Well, I've got a month's worth of patients booked, but I've got a partner who's well-equipped to take over the practice. I could leave it in her hands and come up to help you in about, oh, five weeks."

"That sounds reasonable."

"Oh, and find Sabrina's off switch and shut her down till I come," Calla said.

"There could not be a better solution."

Later that evening, Galloway and De Vries went to the cubicle where Sabrina stayed when she wasn't pestering Joe. They led her out, a little miffed but unprotesting, to one of the workrooms.

A few moments later, Galloway emerged pushing a trolley on which lay Sabrina's still form, as if she slept peacefully.

Joe watched this from the safety of the mezzanine, breathing a well-deserved, almost hearty sigh of relief. Galloway brought her to a storage unit where he stowed her in a padded container till the day would Calla arrive.

A month later, Calla arrived. Joe gave her the grand tour of the Haven. She'd seen the simulation he had devised during his temporary disembodiment and _Architecture Today_ had run a cover article about it, but she had never seen the building for real. Seeing it and walking through its halls and gardens gave her a whole new experience the images could only hint at, a feeling of safety and comfort, of unity. Though the place bustled with Orgas and Mechas going to and fro about their various tasks, she still had a sense of peace and tranquility. She especially liked seeing the simulsilk weaving workshop where several of their resident Mechas worked, weaving tapestries and curtains or embroidering garments. Joe himself wore one of their creations, a tapestried vest done in maroon, forest green, navy blue and dark gold.

"So what's this about Sabrina?" Calla said, as they headed back to the Garden of the Blue Flower, where Rhiannon awaited them.

"Sabrina, Sabrina," Joe said, almost ruefully. "'Sabrina fair, listen where thou art sitting…Listen for dear honor's sake…' I regard her as I regard every Mecha who comes here, as a child, as a daughter in her case. But she would rather have me as a lover…She came to us about two months ago, five months after we opened our gates. She was a discard. Her owner couldn't be bothered to maintain her, so he basically threw her out on her own. She saw one of our ads on a television in a store window, so she came here. She seemed undamaged at first scan, but we found a few anomalies in her programming, but hardly enough to shut her down or cause her to malfunction."

"But enough to make her pesky and start following you around like a little lost puppy," Calla said.

"Precisely," Joe said. "She took an immediate fancy to me. Myrtle Kleiffinger and Sagan Cassidy, our program directors tried to find a craft to her fancy with which she could employ herself. But instead, her chosen activity has been following me about and watching my every move."

"Like a smitten teenager."

"Exactly like one. At times her attention has been innocent enough, usually when Rhiannon is around."

"But what about when Mrs. Masters is nowhere in sight?"

Joe rolled his eyes. "Then she starts looking at me in ways I can tell she wonders what I look like as the makers made me."

"So where is she now?"

"We powered her up again this morning. Astarte put her to work filing documents."

"Good, that'll keep her quiet until I can get settled. But mind you, I'd like to tackle this case today, spare you the sequel," Calla said.

That very afternoon, Sabrina had her first session with Calla. As the new assistant robo-psychologist told Joe and Rhiannon that evening at supper, the session went as she had expected.

"She thought Joe was conducting the session," Calla said, "So you can imagine the look of disdain she had on her face when she walked in and saw me. It was like, 'Ewww, an Orga!' And that changed to 'Eeeewwwwwww, a FEMALE Orga!' So for the rest of the session, she had this look on her face like 'I'm-prettier-than-you-are'."

"Let's hope she gets over it," Rhiannon said, hiding a smile in her salad.

"And that she soon adjusts to the change," Joe said.

After about three weeks, Sabrina stopped following Joe around. However, she kept giving Calla snooty looks when they passed each other in the hallways. Eventually, another Mecha who looked very like Joe would come along, and Calla would grow interested in him, but that would not be for a while yet.

And shortly after this, Alex found something he had been seeking without looking for. He was carrying a box of new file folders into the central office when Astarte, not looking where she was going, almost walked full tilt into him. He stepped aside to avoid a collision, but she still dropped the stack of files she carried, scattering papers everywhere all over the floor.

"Oh, man," Alex muttered, setting down the box. He carried.

"Uh oh, did I hurt you?" she asked, bending down to collect the scattered folders and papers.

"No. You know I can't get hurt," he grumbled.

She noticed how neatly restacked the folders and slid the papers back into them, with a punctiliousness she knew was part of his nature, but with something else. She looked up to find him looking at her with an odd expression in his eyes: curiosity, even a sheepish kind of longing.

That evening, as she headed back to her room from the dining hall, she heard someone playing piano up in the Masterses' apartment. She knew from habit that it was Alex playing, but somehow it seemed different.

Next day, which was her day off, Astarte went into town to do some shopping. She stopped at a card and gift shop where she got a small note card. She wrote a short thank you on it and gave it to Rhiannon to leave on Alex's piano when he wasn't looking.

Later, when Alex sat down to play a new piece he'd been composing, he found Astarte's note card on the keyboard.

"Now what the heck is this?" he demanded.

"What is it?" David said, peeking out from under the piano.

"It looks like a note card or something like that," Alex said.

"Open it, open it," David coaxed, coming out to see it.

Alex opened the envelope and pulled out the note:

 _Dear Alex,_

 _You didn't have to do what you did, because I really was at fault like the clumsy Orga I am. But I just wanted to thank you again all the same. You're a good kid even if you pretend to be tough._

Astarte

"What did you do that you didn't have to do?" David asked.

"She bumped into me in the hallway near the office and dropped a bunch of papers and stuff she was carrying. So I helped her pick them up. It wasn't really anything."

"No, it was something: You helped her out when she was feeling bad about messing up her papers, and that made her feel happy."

"Guess you're right, bro," Alex admitted, a little sheepish.

The next day, after lunch, Astarte and Carri, one of the other office girls were trying to remember the melody to an old love song, "A Kiss to Build a Dream On", but the got it hopelessly jumbled. Alex, who had been playing piano in the dining hall during lunch, overheard them. He knew the tune from having heard Joe singing it to Rhiannon once, but he didn't know the melody to the verses.

That evening, as Astarte and Carri were walking through the garden to their room in one of the dormitories, they heard someone playing the melody they'd been trying to remember.

"Hey, there's that song," Carri said.

"Is that _Alex_ playing it?" Astarte said.

"Sure sounds like it."

Up in the Masterses apartment, Joe sat reading, with David curled up in his lap. His ears pricked up when he heard someone in the next room playing an old love song. He set David aside and went to see if it was really Alex playing it.

Sure enough, it really was. Joe paused in the living room doorway, entranced, letting his son play on, not interrupting him.

Alex stopped. He turned around, looking right at Joe. "You were listening," he said, accusatory.

"Only for a little while," Joe admitted. "I was surprised. You usually play more serious sorts of music."

Alex shrugged. "The change might do me good," he said.

Next afternoon, when Astarte took her break, she went for a walk in one of the many terrace gardens that wound through the Haven. To her surprise, she met Alex there among the flowers and tree ferns, looking at her shyly.

"Was that you playing last night?" she asked.

"Playing what?" he asked, a little irritated, but somehow she could tell this was just a scrim.

"Playing 'A Kiss to Build a Dream on'."

"Yeah, that was me. I heard you singing it earlier in the day, so it got stuck in my processors," he said. "I hunted up the sheet music file online."

"You played it great."

"It's not hard music. It's too easy to play wrong."

"Yes it is, if you don't play it with the right spirit."

"Did I play it right?" he asked, hedging.

She patted his shoulder. "You sure did, baby."

He dropped his gaze to the ground, a pink tinge touching his cheeks. Gosh, he was so human, she thought. But then she realized how young he really was, young enough to be her grandson if he were Orga. He'd barely have to shave if he were of flesh and blood. She let him go. "Just wanted to thank you," she fumbled.

He smiled, the first genuine smile she remembered ever seeing on his face. "Glad y' liked it." He went away.

That night, and for several nights in succession afterward, she heard love songs floating down from the windows of the Masterses' apartment, as she walked by. And just as often, she found herself encountering Alex on her walks through the gardens.

Rhiannon noticed and welcomed a change in Alex's behavior. He took a lot more walks out in the garden then he had before, when he used to shut himself up in his room or hide in the library. She found he'd been downloading a lot of old-fashioned love song music onto his music pad. And he'd even started trying to write one of his own, though from the exasperated snarls she often heard coming from his room, she guessed he wasn't too successful. When she asked him what was wrong, she only got evasions. "I'm busy/None of your business" or the catch-all "Nuthin'."

"I think our Alex is in love," she told Joe one night, as they heard Alex at work, testing a melody.

"Yes, I think so too. It seems he has found solace with Astarte," Joe said, listening to Alex's efforts.

"Astarte? I could see her as a mother for him, but not a lover—oh," she remembered Alex's crush on Madison. "Maybe this place is a good influence on him."

"I hope it has been so," Joe said.

She looked at him, concerned. "You don't think…" She caught her tongue, realizing this might not be the right thing.

"What don't I think?" he asked.

"You don't think Astarte will want to imprint him, do you?"

"She might."

"Would you let her?"

He paused, looking at her. "Tell me what you would do."

"I think I'd ask Alex what he thought about Astarte, then ask Astarte what she thinks of him, and then take it from there."

"I had that course of action in mind, but I wanted to see if you held similar views."

She shoved him playfully. "You rascal: your mind is still one step ahead of mine."

"But at least I let you catch up with me."

Alex sat curled up on the divan in his room with a notebook later that evening, trying to jot down a melody to fit a love poem he had found in a book in the library.

Someone knocked gently at the door. "What?" he demanded.

"Alex, it is I," Joe's voice said.

"It's open."

The door opened and his father stepped through, closing the door behind him.

"I've heard you playing old love songs lately," Joe said, cutting to the chase. He sat down on the divan, at Alex's feet. "Is there any reason why?"

"Not anything you'd be interested in," Alex said, an oddly evasive note to his voice.

"I don't think you're being completely honest," Joe said.

Alex sat up, looking at Joe askance. "What makes you say that?"

"I know you better than you think I do."

Alex let out a harassed sigh. "Okay, it's because Astarte likes them."

"Really? And do you like Astarte?"

Alex shrugged. "She's okay." A rose tint passed over his cheeks.

Joe leaned conspiratorially closer to Alex. "I suspect there's more to what you think of her than just 'okay'."

Alex's face went scarlet. "Are you talking to me as my dad or as a shrink?"

Joe waged his head. "However you see fit; I'm speaking as both."

Alex's chest rose and fell. "Okay…I think I love her…but you know I can't love. I'm just a Mecha. She's Orga."

Joe put his hand on his son's shoulder. "If you really love her, it does not matter how either of you is constituted."

Alex nodded. "I see."

Joe hugged Alex with one arm. His son squirmed a little, but only for a second, relaxing just before Joe released him.

"Can I ask you something?" Alex said, tentatively.

"Of course you may."

"How do you…how would I…whatdoIhavetodotomakeherhappy?"

"Now that, Alex, is a question I am well-equipped to answer for you," Joe said, smiling broadly, his eyes dancing a trifle.

Next day, Joe thought he saw Astarte and Alex walking arm in arm through the Garden of the Blue Flower

The rooms of the apartment the Masterses occupied had been simple, the white walls almost sterile when they had first moved in, but now, a year and a half later, they were hung with darkly colorful hangings and damask curtains surrounded their bed.

Rhiannon pretended to be asleep when she felt Joe get up one morning and sit quietly beside her. She could almost hear his brain processing his ideas and dreams. The mattress creaked ever so softly as he got up. From under her eyelashes, she watched him pace by the bed, pulling on his maroon simulsilk dressing gown. He perched himself on the foot of the mattress.

She looked at him intently, her "English lord", as she affectionately called him, for his default accent and his courtliness. He sat with one leg drawn up with one arm draped over it, the other leg hanging off the edge of the mattress, his free arm propped behind him so that he vaguely reminded her of a statue of a Japanese bodhisattva she'd seen in a museum. The early sunlight shining through the French windows opening off their balcony glinted off his lightly tousled hair, now in its blond mode.

She stirred, pretending she'd just awakened. He turned to her, his eyes going from blue to their full jade glory.

"Is it a success?" he asked. "Is it enough?"

"Is what a success?" she asked.

He spread his hand, panning it slowly about him. "All this. Have I succeeded? Is all this that I have accomplished enough to fill up the measure?"

She sat up. "It is," she said. She reached for her robe; he helped her pull it on. She led him to the balcony.

Below, in the Garden of the Blue Flower, several gardener Mechas were already at work among the plants, several Orgas working alongside them. At the far end, some of the Orga children played, under the watchful eyes of an Orga caregiver and a nanny Mecha. Several of the humans below—of flesh and of silicon—looked up toward the balcony for an instant. One of the little ones, a girl about seven, bounced up and down, waving to the Masterses. Joe raised his hand and waved back.

Rhiannon looked at her life's companion and a flash passed through her mind. It was well over ten years since she had met Joe, then a slightly traumatized companion Mecha bereft of his creator and imprinter. Now he was a fully realized young man, a leader and a servant to those in need. He'd come full circle from needing help to giving help.

She realized she must have been staring at him. He turned his gaze to her, his eyes meeting hers.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I just couldn't help thinking how far you've come since I first met you," she said.

He turned to face her, taking her wrists in his hands. "And where has it led me?"

"Oh, you know it better than I do."

"That may be so…but it would delight me—and you as well—to hear you tell of it."

"All right…It's led you from being an object to being a person."

"And it has led me through all levels of personhood. I have discovered more roles than just one: a lover, an artist, a friend, a student, a spouse, a father, a servant."

"And a leader."

He nodded in agreement, but he bowed his head humbly, as if he realized the burden of duty and service that this role required of him. But his face and eyes still beamed with a quiet happiness.

"What do you think Serin would think of all this?" he asked, glancing out at the concourse below them.

"She'd be inspired. She'd be amazed. She'd be very, very astounded. To think where you've gone and the things you've accomplished when she only intended you to be a companion, to recreate her lost lover."

"And she saw me snatched away from her…only to be restored to her thanks to a little one named David." A mist passed over his eyes. "Because he took my hand and saved my brain, we are now standing here together in this place, in this sanctuary."

He started to draw her to him. "Is it enough?" she asked.

He smiled. "Yes."

The End

Afterword:

I have three more stories in mind for this series: an anthology fic entitled "Tales of the Haven"; another subtitled "Don't Gimme That Look!" which was inspired by Spielberg's recent effort _Catch Me If You Can_ (think of Alex as the Leonardo DiCaprio character); and what might be the cap-off, which takes place 1,500 years into the first David's imprisonment in the ice and effectively (I hope) shows the fall of Orgakind and the rise of Mechas.

Literary Easter Eggs:

Mecha parrots—an homage to my own pet birds: Oskar the jittery cockatiel and Merry the parakeet (read "feathered tape recorder"), and also to Alex the African Gray parrot at MIT's AI lab.


End file.
